LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  MATURITY  OF 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


THE  POET  IN  THE  PRIME  OF  LIFE 


THE  MATURITY  OF 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


Fortune's  way  with  the  Poet  in  the 
Prime  of  Life  and  After 


By 
MARCUS  DICKEY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  PAINTED 
UNDER  THE  POET'S   DIRECTION 

By  WILL  VAWTER 

AND  REPRODUCTIONS  OF  PHOTOGRAPHS. 
MANUSCRIPTS  AND  RARE  DOCUMENTS 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT.  1922 
BY  THE  BOBBS-MBRRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PRESS  OP 
BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


He  who  knows  that  power  is  inborn,  that 
he  is  weak  because  he  has  looked  for  good  out 
of  him  and  elsewhere,  and,  so  perceiving, 
throws  himself  unhesitatingly  on  his  thought, 
instantly  rights  himself,  stands  in  the  erect 
position,  works  miracles. 

So  use  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men 
gamble  with  her,  and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as 
her  wheel  rolls. 

— FROM  EMERSON'S  Self-Reliance. 


FOREWORD 

The  author's  first  volume — The  Youth  of  James 
Whit  comb  Riley — according  to  friendly  reviewers,  has 
more  than  biographic  value.  "It  is  almost  the  story 
of  the  youth  of  Indiana,"  wrote  a  generous  critic,  "or 
the  story  of  pur  great  Middle  West.  Impelled  by  in 
herent  individualism,  the  central  figure  rises  from 
primitive  beginnings,  and,  catching  at  apparently 
trivial,  haphazard  and  often  serio-comic  opportunities, 
lifts  itself  in  obedience  to  some  secret  spring  of  power 
within,  and  emerging  at  last  into  a  gracious  maturity, 
presents  the  spectacle  of  a  strong,  admirable  personal 
ity,  well  worth  the  careful  study  and  whole-hearted 
approval  of  a  critical  world." 

This  reviewer  fittingly  termed  the  story  "Riley  the 
Boy."  And  so  this  story  of  the  poet's  maturity  may 
be  termed  RILEY  THE  MAN,  and  as  such  is  offered  to  a 
friendly  public  with  the  enduring  gratitude  of 

THE  AUTHOR. 

Heart  of  the  Highlands 
Nashville,  Indiana, 
June,  1922. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM    .  1 

II  DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS    .    .  23 

III  THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  ....  41 

IV  WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL    .    .  56 
V  SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM    ....  77 

VI    LITERARY  DENS 100 

VII  WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING    ....  118 

VIII  STORY  OF  His  PEN  NAMES 141 

IX    His  FIRST  BOOK 157 

X  ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES    .  172 

XI  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK    .    .    .  201 

XII    THE  SILVER  LINING 215 

XIII  THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION      ....  234 

XIV  THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS      .    .    .  257 
XV    THE  POET  AT  FORTY 273 

XVI  ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET    .    .  286 

XVII    POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 300 

XVIII    THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY 314 

XIX    BUILDING  BOOKS 337 

XX    A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN 353 

XXI  LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM    ...  369 

XXII  IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE    .    .    .  389 

INDEX  415 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  POET  IN  THE  PRIME  OF  LIFE 


Frontispiece 


OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE  AT  MONROVIA — Now  A 
SAWMILL— SCENE  OF  THE  POET'S  FIRST 
PUBLIC  READING  .  .  .  .  .  .  Facing  page  10 

THE  GREENFIELD  ADELPHIAN  CLUB  AND  BAND 

WAGON "  "11 

ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE,  WHO  INTRODUCED  THE 

POET  TO  THE  LECTURE  PLATFORM  "  "  44 

MYRON  W.  REED,  FROM  A  PORTRAIT  BY  T.  C. 

STEELS .  »  "  "  45 

JUDGE  E.  B.  MARTINDALE,  PROPRIETOR!  OF  THE 

INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL — 1875  ...  "  "  60 

JOHN  C.  NEW,  PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  INDIANAP 
OLIS  JOURNAL  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES  .  .  "  "  61 

GEORGE  C.  HITT,  PUBLISHER  OF  THE  POET'S 

FIRST  BOOK .  .  "  "  94 

SENATOR  HARRY  S.  NEW,  FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH 
TAKEN  WHILE  AN  OFFICER  IN  THE  SPAN 
ISH-AMERICAN  WAR  .  * .  .  .  .  "  "  95 

THE  OLD  JOURNAL  BUILDING,  NORTHEAST 
CORNER  OF  MARKET  AND  PENNSYLVANIA 
STREETS,  INDIANAPOLIS "  "  122 

COVER  FOR  THE  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK  IN  PROSE— 

THE  Boss  GIRL "  "123 

THE  POET  IN  1886,  THE  FIRST  YEAR  HE  IN 
CLUDED  Little  Orphant  Annie  IN  His 
PUBLIC  READINGS "  "150 

A  BOYHOOD  MEMORY,  THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'- 

HOLE  IN  BRANDYWINE  CREEK— 1860  ,.  "  "  151 

OLD  SEMINARY  HOMESTEAD,  GREENFIELD— 
THE  "CROW'S  NEST"  .  ...  ,  .  .,  "  "  178 

KINGRY'S  MILL,  WHERE  PIONEERS  "TUCK 
THEIR  GRINDIN'  "  IN  THE  FALL  OF  'FOR 
TY-THREE  "  "  179 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK,  BELOVED 
SCENERY  WHICH  INSPIRED  Knee-Deep  in 
June  AND  OTHER  POEMS  ....  Facing  page  206 

OLD  SETTLERS'  MEETING  AT  OAKLANDON,  MA 
RION  COUNTY,  INDIANA — 1878  ..."  "  207 

THE  POET  AND  His  DEVOTED  FRIEND,  JOEL 

CHANDLER  HARRIS "          "     236 

FROM  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  POET  BY  His  LIFE 
LONG  FRIEND,  T.  C.  STEELS  .,  •  »  "  "  237 

WILLIAM  P.  FISHBACK,  "Wno  WITH  THE 
GREATEST  ZEST  SHARED  WITH  THE  NEEDI 
EST"  "  "262 

FROM  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT  WITH  ILLUSTRA 
TION.  THE  POEM  WRITTEN  ON  THE  AS 
SASSINATION  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD  .,  "  "  263 

THE  POET,  His  NEPHEW,  EDMUND  EITEL, 
AND  HAMLIN  GARLAND  AT  THE  GREEN 
FIELD  HOMESTEAD — 1894  %  ..  v  *  "  "  290 

HOME  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET,  1880,  THE  YEAR 

THE  POET  WROTE  Lockerbie  Street    .      ;         "  "     291 

GREENFIELD  THE  MORNING  AFTER  LEE'S  SUR 
RENDER  AT  APPOMATTOX  .  .  *  4  .  "  "  318 

THE  OLD  MASONIC  HALL,  GREENFIELD,  TO 
WHICH  THE  POET  RETURNED  FOR  A  PUB 
LIC  READING  IN  1896 "  "319 

THE  POET  IN  1896 "          "346 

AT  THE  HANCOCK  COUNTY  FAIR,  1865,  A 
MEMORY  OF  EARLY  DAYS  IN  THE  POET'S 
CHILD-WORLD "  "347 

FROM  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  POET  BY  JOHN  S. 

SARGENT        ,  ,.*  . -.;     .     „     *     »      .        "          "     374 

TRAVELER'S  REST,  THE  TAVERN  ON  THE  OLD 
NATIONAL  ROAD,  PHILADELPHIA,  INDIANA 
—1850— A  MEMORY "  "  375 

FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  POET  IN  His 

LATTER  YEARS— 1913 "          "402 

HENRY  WATTERSON — AGE  SEVENTY-EIGHT — A 
STAUNCH  FRIEND  OF  THE  POET  FOR 
THIRTY  YEARS  .  "  "  403 


THE  MATURITY  OF 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


The  Maturity  of 
James  Wfaitcomb  Riley 

CHAPTER  I 
EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM 

AS  shown  in   The   Youth  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  the  poet  had  a  clear  vision  of  his  mission 
as  a  writer  of  verse.    In  connection  with  that 
mission,  his  early  days  revealed  another  phase  of  his 
future,  foretold  his  genius  as  a  public  entertainer. 

It  was  the  third  scene  in  the  fourth  act — &  railroad 
station  at  Shrewsbury  Bend.  To  the  right  is  an  un- 
painted  shed  with  a  broad  platform  around  it,  a  door 
at  the  side,  and  a  window  in  front.  There  is  a  clump 
of  shrubs  near  a  tree  on  the  left.  A  railroad  track 
crosses  at  the  rear,  and  back  of  it  in  perspective  is 
a  view  of  Shrewsbury  River  in  the  moonlight.  There 
is  a  switch  with  a  red  lantern  and  a  coat  hanging  on 
it;  a  signal  lamp  and  post  beside  it,  and  there  are 
numerous  packages  on  the  platform  when  the  scene 
opens.  The  Signal  Man,  whistling  as  he  works,  is 
wheeling  a  barrel  toward  the  shed  when  a  beautiful 
girl  of  nineteen  steps  into  the  moonlight  and  seats 
herself  beside  the  tree.  She  has  fled  from  her  lover 
at  Long  Branch  a  few  miles  distant,  and  is  intent 
on  catching  a  train  for  New  York,  but  there  is  no 


2  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

train  till  morning.  Moved  by  her  distress,  the  Signal 
Man  decides  to  aid  her,  so,  after  storing  the  packages, 
conceals  her  in  the  station  shed  for  the  night.  Lock 
ing  the  door  safely,  he  goes  to  the  switch,  puts  on  his 
coat  and  looks  at  his  watch.  The  "Night  Express" 
from  New  York  is  due  in  ten  minutes.  He  walks 
around  the  shed  with  his  lantern,  goes  to  the  track 
again,  looks  up  and  down  the  shining  rails,  lights  his 
pipe,  and  then  walks  off  to  his  shanty  in  the  village. 

Then  things  begin  to  happen:  A  friend  of  the 
young  woman  (a  veteran  of  the  late  Civil  War),  puts 
in  an  appearance,  is  seized  by  a  robber  and  bound 
with  a  rope  to  the  railroad  track — then  the  faint 
whistle  of  the  locomotive  and  the  rumble  of  the  on 
coming  train — the  frantic  fright  of  the  young  woman, 
who  batters  down  the  shed  door  with  an  ax  and  rescues 
her  friend  in  the  glare  of  the  headlight  as  the  "Ex 
press"  roars  by. 

Such,  inadequately  outlined,  is  a  scene  from  Augus- 
tin  Daly's  famous  old  play,  Under  the  Gaslight,  a  pic 
turesque  drama  of  life  and  love  "in  these  times" — 
the  times  being  the  early  'seventies  of  the  last  century. 
The  play  had  been  booked  for  a  one-night  stand  at 
White's  Hall,  Marion,  Indiana.  For  a  week  it  had 
been  heralded  as  "the  great  New  York  sensation," 
with  a  railroad  scene  guaranteed  to  raise  the  audience 
"to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement." 

Then  a  calamity  befell :  the  Signal  Man  of  the  com 
pany  was  taken  ill!  What  was  to  be  done?  Riley's 
friends,  knowing  his  ability,  suggested  him  to  the 
manager,  and  he  was  asked  to  play  the  part.  He 
consented  with  the  understanding  that  he  be  allowed 
to  portray  character  as  he  conceived  it.  Discovering 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM      a 

that  the  "property"  coat  was  not  realistic,  he  bor 
rowed  one  from  a  local  "section  man";  also  a  pair  of 
wrinkled  boots  and  a  "run-down"  hat.  Riley  was 
twenty-three  at  this  time,  but  in  the  guise  of  the 
switchman  he  looked  sixty.  Since  his  dialogue  was 
with  the  young  woman  only,  he  gave  her  the  cue  for 
reply  by  a  simple  and  self-designed  turn  of  the  index 
finger,  which  she  alone  understood,  thus  affording  him 
opportunity  to  introduce  features  not  in  the  original 
text.  His  lines  were  brief,  but  as  he  went  on  im 
provising  here  and  there,  talking  naturally  as  an  old 
man  would  talk,  the  audience  listened  with  rapt  at 
tention,  and  when  at  last,  muttering  and  smiling 
deliciously  to  himself,  he  trudged  off  the  stage,  the 
hall  grew  stormy  with  applause. 

Quite  early  in  his  young  manhood  Riley  was  aflame 
with  the  desire  to  be  an  actor,  just  as  Louisa  Alcott 
was  "violently  attacked"  by  the  same  mania.  With 
slight  change  in  his  purpose,  the  desire  led  him  on 
through  struggles  and  failures  to  success  as  a  public 
reader.  When  but  six  years  old,  his  mimicry  often 
shocked  his  parents,  for  he  frequently  displayed  it  at 
the  wrong  time.  A  year  or  so  later  his  mother  listened 
in  amazement  to  his  recital  of  the  chatter  of  a  strolling 
Bohemian,  who  was  picking  up  a  living  on  the  street 
with  a  cage  of  trained  canaries. 

In  April,  1870,  Riley  made  quite  a  hit  as  Charles 
Fenton  in  Toodles,  but  when,  two  or  three  years  later, 
his  success  as  Grandfather  Whitehead  in  The  Chimney 
Corner,  and  Troubled  Tom  in  A  Child  of  Waterloo, 
became  the  talk  of  the  town,  he  began  to  dream  of 
a  wider  field.  A  friend  wrote  him  from  the  West,  "a 
tragi-comic  friend,"  said  Riley,  "who  wore  a  black 


4  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

frock-coat  to  look  like  Hamlet.  He  had  the  stage 
fever  as  I  had,  but  he  also  had  what  I  lacked — the 
money  to  reconnoiter  in  new  fields."  According  to 
the  friend,  there  were  two  flattering  prospects.  In 
the  first,  Riley  might  star  in  Second  Comedy  on  an 
Omaha  circuit.  The  second  was  a  probable  engage 
ment  at  the  Olympic  Theater,  St.  Louis,  at  fifteen  dol 
lars  a  week.  "I  really  believe,"  said  Riley,  "that  I 
could  have  made  good  in  St.  Louis,  but  it  soon  turned 
out  that  I  had  the  wrong  pig  by  the  ear." 

One  Saturday  evening  the  Harry  Gilbert  Company 
entertained  a  Greenfield  audience,  in  "the  very  laugh 
able  farce,  The  Rough  Diamond/'  The  company  was 
assisted  by  "well-known  local  talent,"  including  Cap 
tain  Lee  Harris  and  J.  W.  Riley.  Here  was  Riley's 
first  experience  with  that  autocrat,  the  stage  manager. 
"I  once  thought  I  could  be  an  actor,"  was  his  comment 
twenty  years  later,  "but  I  found  they  would  not  let 
me.  For  instance,  traditions  of  the  stage  would  never 
permit  me  to  stand  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets.  I 
thought  there  were  exceptions.  Whenever  I  saw  a 
chance  to  do  some  good  acting,  something  that  would 
be  natural,  the  autocrat  would  scream  out,  'Here! 
that's  not  the  way  to  do  that!  You  come  in  at  this 
entrance ;  you  stand  there;  you  do  this  way,  and  that 
way.'  Being  always  in  hot  water  at  rehearsals,  I 
found  it  impossible  to  be  natural  at  the  performance. 
My  heart  was  not  in  it.  It  was  all  on  a  false  basis. 
Sometimes  I  would  talk  back.  'No  man  ever  said  that 
that  way/  I  would  retort.  'It  is  not  truthful,  and  it 
will  not  go/  'No  matter/  returned  the  autocrat,  'you 
do  it  the  way  I  tell  you.  I've  got  to  look  out  for  the 
proper  effect/  I  soon  saw  they  would  not  let  me 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM      5 

be  an  actor.  An  actor,  according  to  the  old  story  of 
Peg  Woffington,  really  personates,  which  your  mere 
man  of  the  stage  never  does.  A  grain  less  may  be 
good  speaking,  fine  preaching,  high  ranting,  and  elo 
quent  reciting,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  it's  acting" 

One  property  man's  advice,  however,  was  not  for 
gotten.  "Say,  Riley,"  he  said  at  a  rehearsal,  "you 
have  a  trade,  haven't  you?  You  can  make  two  or1 
three  dollars  a  day,  I  suppose."  Riley  told  him  that 
he  could.  "See  here,"  said  he,  "why  waste  time  in 
failure  on  the  stage?  Stick  to  your  trade.  You  do 
not  know  it,  but  there  are  people  in  this  company 
working  for  nothing.  Half  the  time  none  of  us  get  our 
pay.  Take  my  advice  and  go  back  to  your  trade." 
Riley  took  the  advice ;  he  quit  the  company ;  for  years 
he  painted  signs  for  a  living.  Nevertheless  he  loved 
the  members  of  the  dramatic  profession.  "They  are 
big-hearted  people,  charitable  and  noble,"  said  he. 

The  poet's  debt  to  the  stage  was  noteworthy,  and 
it  was  always  gratefully  remembered,  but  the  mem 
ories  were  of  the  days  when  he  painted  the  scenery 
for  the  Greenfield  Dramatic  Club  and  acted  after  his 
own  fashion.  It  was  his  interest  in  the  stage  that 
led  him  to  think  about  the  relation  of  a  character  to 
those  who  should  hear  that  character  speak.  Thoughts 
should  not  be  foreign  to  a  character  if  they  were  to 
impress  the  audience.  The  scene  and  the  words  must 
harmonize.  Soon  he  discovered  that  what  an  author 
writes  must  be  in  concord  with  the  reader's  knowledge 
of  the  facts.  He  gained  a  local  reputation  by  reciting 
"The  Vagabonds,"  "The  Village  Blacksmith,"  and 
other  selections  at  "modest  little  gatherings"  and  home 
concerts,  "but,"  to  quote  his  own  words,  "very  soon 


6  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

I  was  up  a  stump."  He  found  in  reading  a  poem  or 
reciting  a  story  from  some  book,  that  he  could  not  do 
it  well  because  it  was  not  naturally  written.  He  tried 
to  mend  the  faulty  lines  but  soon  found  that  would  not 
work.  The  difficulty  suggested  two  questions :  First, 
How  can  you  express  a  thought  naturally  unless  it  is 
phrased  naturally?  And  second,  Why  not  write  some 
thing  yourself  and  see  whether  it  will  take?  Answer 
ing  the  second  question  he  wrote  several  dialect  poems, 
but  for  some  time  was  careful  not  to  claim  them  as 
his  own,  under  the  impression  that  there  was  a  preju 
dice  against  home-grown  poets.  He  avoided  the  sing 
song  delivery  and  spoke  his  lines  as  if  they  were 
spontaneous  statements  of  facts.  "Here  is  a  selec 
tion/'  he  would  say  to  the  audience,  when  about  to 
recite  one  of  his  own  verses,  "that  I  found  in  a  worn- 
out  newspaper,"  and  "Here  is  another  from  a  maga 
zine,"  and  so  on.  Whenever  a  poem  made  a  hit  he 
saved  it,  improved  it,  and  added  it  to  his  permanent 
list — and  when  there  were  no  signs  of  approval  he 
"buried  the  production."  He  was  not  then  writing 
for  publication.  To  quote  him  again,  he  "never  ex 
pected  to  see  in  print  one  half  of  what  he  wrote." 
In  due  time  he  had  the  courage  to  acknowledge  the 
authorship  of  his  poems.  It  was  the  familiar  experi 
ment  of  Robert  Burns — "trying  a  poem  on  the  public 
to  see  if  it  would  take." 

"How  did  I  become  a  poet?"  Riley  smiled  at  his 
interviewer.  "I  just  drifted  into  it  through  the  nat 
ural  course  of  events.  I  wanted  to  be  an  actor — had 
a  wild  craving  for  the  stage — but  that's  a  mighty 
rocky  road  to  travel.  The  nearest  thing  in  that  line 
I  could  do  was  to  give  public  readings.  Now,  there 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM      7 

is  plenty  of  good  elocutionary  talent,  but  the  people 
soon  tire  of  the  regular  selections.  So  I  concluded  it 
might  be  a  taking  thing  to  have  an  original  program. 

"Then  I  took  part  in  the  blue  ribbon  movement," 
Riley  continued;  "wrote  temperance  poems  and  gave 
temperance  entertainments  in  company  with  other 
speakers.  One  of  my  best  was  the  story  of  a  reformed 
saloonkeeper,  who  was  bothered  by  the  women  who 
prayed  in  front  of  his  house.  He  shut  himself  in  and 
drank  to  delirium,  and  was  finally  rescued  by  a  veiled 
lady — his  wife  in  disguise — who  prayed  before  his 
door  day  after  day.  No,  I  never  published  the  poems ; 
I  was  not  publishing  in  those  days." 

In  his  "Buzz  Club  Papers,"  1878,  Riley  in  the  guise 
of  "Mr.  Bryce,"  set  down  his  introductory  remarks 
when  reading  an  original  poem  in  Greenfield — a  mem 
ory  it  was  of  the  charming  effect  produced  on  the 
members  of  a  local  lodge.  "  'I  lay  no  claim  to  that 
immortal  gift  of  song/  "  said  Mr.  Bryce,  "  'yet  I  trust 
that  what  I  shall  offer  you  to-night  may  serve  at  least 
the  purpose  for  which  it  is  designed,  namely,  that 
of  pleasing  rather  as  a  sketch  of  character  than  as  a 
work  of  art.  Although  I  feel  that  it  falls  short  of 
the  requirements  of  strict  imitation,  it  was  projected 
in  that  spirit,  and  weak  as  it  is,  I  must  present  it, 
reserving  however  the  right  to  claim  it  as  my  own  in 
case  the  model  remains  undiscovered/ 

"With  this  little  whiff  of  pleasantry,"  runs  the  ac 
count  in  the  "Club  Papers,"  "Mr.  Bryce  bowed  his 
smiling  face  an  instant  from  sight.  Then  lifted  it 
again,  grown  old  and  wrinkled  as  by  enchantment,  and 
in  a  voice  grown  husky  as  with  age,  recited  with  life 
like  simplicity  the  homely  romance  of  'Farmer 


8  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Whipple — Bachelor.' "  The  poem  was  received  with 
an  outburst  of  genuine  enthusiasm. 

Riley's  dream  of  being  an  actor  faded,  but  there 
remained  the  hope  of  success  on  the  platform.  He 
was  his  own  master  in  the  interpretation  of  his  poems 
— no  autocrats  in  his  path — just  dark  days — failures 
— then  sunlight — and  triumph. 

"Dickens  is  giving  a  series  of  farewell  readings  in 
England,  which  attract  attention  beyond  all  prece 
dent.  People  go  from  town  to  town  in  the  vain  hope 
of  getting  seats  before  they  are  sold."  This  news 
item  Riley  read  in  the  Greenfield  Commercial  when 
he  was  twenty  years  old.  It  served  to  clinch  some 
remarks  by  Tom  Snow,  the  "Greenfield  Socrates"  who 
had  taught  Riley  to  love  Dickens.  The  old  Shoemaker 
had  dreams  of  a  day  when  Riley  would  impersonate 
some  of  Dickens'  characters.  "You  want  to  be  an 
actor,"  he  had  said,  looking  up  to  Riley  from  his 
bench;  "Dickens  is  an  actor;  he  is  as  successful  on 
the  boards  as  he  is  between  them.  No  greater  actor 
in  England;  I  do  not  except  Macready.  Dickens  reads 
from  his  own  books,  Macready  from  Shakespeare ;  why 
not  Riley  from  Dickens?"  Dickens  had  gone  to  the 
theater  nearly  every  night  for  three  years  to  study 
acting.  According  to  the  Shoemaker,  the  novelist  had 
been  astoundingly  successful  in  readings  from  the 
Carol,  the  Chimes  and  Pickwick — successful  because 
he  was  a  great  actor. 

Riley  was  deeply  impressed  and  Dickens  at  once 
became  his  platform  inspiration,  just  as  Longfellow 
became  his  patron  saint  in  poetry.  He  began  to  im 
personate  rustic  characters;  to  assume  the  name  of 
Jones  or  Smith  and  invent  a  family  of  relatives  and 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM      9 

attach  to  them  various  characteristics — virtues  and 
vices. 

The  summer  of  1874  marked  Riley's  first  appear 
ance  as  a  sole  performer.  It  was  at  Monrovia,  Mor 
gan  County,  Indiana,  then  a  lively  little  place  of  four 
hundred  inhabitants.  "I  picked  out  a  village  far  from 
home,"  he  said,  "so  that  if  I  failed  nobody  would  hear 
of  it.  By  the  almanac  I  was  twenty-five,  but  as  a 
booster  of  entertainments,  callow  as  celery  in  a  tile. 
Still  sticking  to  my  trade,  I  was  hanging  round  a 
paint  shop  in  Mooresville.  When  business  was  dull  I 
loafed  at  the  photograph  gallery  and  wrote  articles 
for  the  Mooresville  Herald.  Sometimes  the  Herald 
was  out  of  space;  then  I  just  loafed  around  the  gal 
lery.  The  elocution  bee  was  buzzing  in  my  bonnet, 
and  having  created  a  furor  by  reciting  to  a  few  friends 
in  a  parlor  one  night,  I  concluded  to  cut  loose  and  try 
it  alone.  Nobody  would  know  me  over  there  in  the 
cross-roads  village,  and  I  fancied  that  I  might  make 
quite  a  hit  as  The  Greatest  Imitator  and  Caricaturist 
of  the  Age.  So  I  rolled  up  some  paint  brushes  in  long 
sheets  of  white  paper  from  the  Herald  office,  borrowed 
a  hat  and  a  guitar,  threw  a  light  overcoat  over  my 
arm,  and  like  Obidah,  the  son  of  Abensina,  went  for 
ward  to  see  the  hills  rising  before  me.  I  remember 
that  my  overcoat  was  rather  shabby,  'but  by  turning  it 
wrong-side  out  the  lining  gave  it  a  tolerable  appear 
ance,  as  it  hung  on  my  arm.  After  walking  a  short 
distance,  the  hack  came  along,  an  old  covered  quail- 
trap  that  plied  between  the  towns.  I  gave  the  driver 
forty  cents  and  about  noon  he  landed  me  safely  at 
the  little  tavern  in  Monrovia." 

It  was  Tuesday.    After  dinner  Riley  sought  out  the 


10  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

trustees  who  promptly  promised  him  their  "meeting 
house"  for  an  entertainment  Wednesday  evening.  Re 
turning  to  the  tavern,  he  painted  hand-bills  and  a  few 
large  poster's  with  his  name  in  big  red  letters  at  the 
top.  One  poster  displayed  the  word  COMEDIAN,  and 
was  illustrated  with  a  picture  of  a  fat  man  holding 
his  sides  and  laughing,  presumably,  at  the  comedian's 
witticisms.  "Judging  from  the  band  of  children  that 
followed  Riley  as  he  tacked  up  his  bills,"  said  the 
Monrovian  marshal  many  years  after,  "one  would  have 
thought  he  was  the  biggest  man  in  town — and  he  was." 

It  was  a  windy  afternoon  and  the  bill-posting  had 
been  disagreeable  business,  but. Riley  was  happy.  In 
those  days  it  did  not  take  much  to  make  him  happy, 
or  miserable  either.  "In  the  shank  of  the  evening" 
he  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  tavern,  feeling  that  he 
had  earned  his  night's  rest,  when  a  tall,  lank  man 
approached  him. 

"You're  the  fellow  that's  goin'  to  give  the  show?" 
he  asked. 

"A  literary  entertainment,"  replied  Riley.  He  did 
not  like  to  have  it  called  a  show. 

"Your  hand-bills  stuck  up  round  town?"  asked  the 
man. 

"Yes,  sir — my  posters,"  returned  Riley. 

"Well,  you  can't  have  the  church ;  the  trustees  didn't 
know  you  wuz  a  comedian." 

This  made  Riley  feel,  he  said,  as  if  he  had  been 
caught  stealing.  He  tried  to  make  the  lanky  gentle 
man  understand  that  he  wasn't  going  to  cut  "monkey- 
shines,"  and  that  he  would  not  injure  the  people  mor 
ally.  In  vain  he  pleaded;  no  show  of  that  sort  in 
"our  church"— and  that  settled  it. 


OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE  AT  MONROVIA — NOW  A  SAWMILL — SCENE  OF  THE  POET'S 
FIRST  PUBLIC  READING 


!  s' 

,fr     fill1    I    !% 


THE  GREENFIELD  ADELPHIAN  CLUB  AND  BAND  WAGON — 1874 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM    11 

The  next  place  for  the  entertainment  was  the  school- 
house,  and  this  was  promised  for  Thursday  evening. 
Wednesday  morning  Riley  distributed  revised  hand 
bills.  This  time  there  were  not  so  many  "curly-cues" 
on  them,  nor  did  he  whistle  and  sing  as  he  had  done 
the  day  before.  He  began  to  feel  as  if  the  whole  ven 
ture  would  "fizzle."  In  the  afternoon  he  was  tuning 
his  guitar  and  practising  his  songs,  when  a  stranger 
knocked  at  his  door. 

"You  are  the  showman,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  Riley  was  not 
so  particular  about  it  being  called  a  literary  entertain 
ment  as  he  had  been  the  day  before. 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  "you'll  have  to  pay  a  license 
before  you  can  sell  tickets." 

"How  much  is  the  license?" 

"Two  dollars." 

Riley  had  but  a  dollar  left.  The  admission  was  to 
be  ten  cents  and  feeling  certain  the  receipts  would  not 
cover  the  expenses,  Riley  quickly  decided  to  make  it 
a  free  show.  So  he  hurried  a  third  time  over  town 
and  painted  on  the  posters — ADMISSION  FREE. 

When  night  came  the  little  schoolhouse  was  full — 
full  of  noise  and  disappointment.  "It  was  a  crowd  of 
thoughtless  children,"  to  quote  again  the  town  mar 
shal,  "the  ragtag  and  bobtail  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
a  gang  of  rough  fellows  from  Adams  Township,  who 
happened  to  ride  to  town  that  night."  The  "little 
sprinkling"  of  men  and  women  who  frowned  on  the 
disorder  did  not  count. 

Interspersing  his  comic  selections  with  such  musical 
favorites  as  "Kathleen  Mavourneen"  and  "Silver  This 
tle,"  Riley  strove  to  gain  a  respectable  hearing,  t<* 


12  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

make  his  audience  respond,  the  while  his  own  heart 
was  breaking.  The  response  to  "The  Mocking  Bird" 
with  his  own  variations  was  a  sickening  jumble  of 
hisses  and  cat-calls.  The  effect  on  him  is  indescribable. 
His  own  words  give  a  glimpse  of  his  agony:  "The 
groans  of  confusion,"  said  he,  "were  blotched  and 
patched  with  scraps  of  sound  torn  from  tunes  that 
demons  dreamed.  For  the  moment  I  thought  I  would 
break  down,  but  keeping  a  stiff  under-lip  upside  down, 
as  a  brother  actor  once  admonished  me,  I  stuck  to  it 
and  finished  my  program  with  Tulling  Hard  against 
the  Stream/  " 

As  Riley  sat  down,  the  village  blacksmith  rose: 
"You  fellows,"  he  said  abruptly,  "have  had  your  fun 
with  this  young  man  and  I  think  you've  hurt  his 
feelings.  He  has  done  his  best  to  please  you,  and  he 
has  given  us  a  pretty  good  show.  I  move  we  pass  the 
hat."  Dropping  two  bits  in  for  good  luck,  he  passed 
his  hat  through  the  crowd  himself.  This  little  act 
of  approval  touched  Riley  tenderly;  it  was  a  kind- 
hearted  crowd  after  all,  and  he  smiled — "as  the  sun 
smiles  through  the  mists  of  morning." 

The  blacksmith  had  his  own  way  of  referring  to  the 
collection.  "When  I  tell  you  what  was  in  that  hat," 
he  once  groaned,  "it  makes  me  want  to  roll  my  over 
alls  up  above  my  knees  and  kick  that  gang  from  Mon 
rovia  to  Mud  Creek.  There  was  everything  in  it — 
beans  and  pebbles,  nails  and  screws,  tobacco  quids, 
buttons,  pieces  of  a  door-knob  and  a  wishbone — and 
money? — just  forty-eight  cents." 

The  blacksmith  also  spoke  of  the  effect  on  Riley. 
"There  are  some  feelings,"  he  said,  "that  just  have  to 
be  let  alone;  they  have  to  describe  themselves.  It 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM    13 

seemed  to  me  that  Riley  went  to  his  room  as  if  begging 
his  own  pardon  for  having  been  born  a  man  instead 
of  a  dog.  The  next  morning  he  rolled  up  his  paint 
brushes  and  his  guitar  and  leaving  his  overcoat  as 
security  for  his  board  bill  plodded  his  weary  way 
back  to  Mooresville." 

For  Riley  it  was  Black  Friday.  Four  days  before, 
the  scenery  had  been  beautiful — the  growing  corn, 
the  orchards,  the  beech  and  walnut  groves,  and  the 
old  mill.  Now  things  were  dark  and  dreary.  "I  re 
member,"  said  he,  "that  the  moaning  of  a  dove  across 
a  stubble  Held  was  ineffably  sad.  It  was  like  the 
yearning  cry  of  a  long-lost  love.  Although  the  sun 
was  shining,  the  weather  seemed  dispiriting.  It  was 
noon  when  I  came  in  sight  of  Mooresville,  yet  the 
church  spires  seemed  to  peer  through  a  coming  dark 
ness." 

Monrovia  saw  Riley  no  more.  "It  would  be  fine," 
he  said,  when  at  the  summit  of  his  platform  triumphs, 
"to  spend  a  day  at  the  little  brown  boarding-house 
under  its  duck-bill  roof.  I  would  like  to  see  the  old 
couple  who  kept  it,  flying  about  to  prepare  the  spare 
room  for  me  and  an  extra  place  at  the  table.  I  would 
like  to  ask  them  where  they  hung  my  overcoat.  But 
I  can't  go  back  to  Monrovia,  and  besides  I  can't  read 
'Farmer  Whipple'  and  'Tradin'  Joe'  any  better  now 
than  I  did  then." 

"When  Fate  desires  a  great  success,  she  sends  her 
chosen  one  failure,"  some  one  observes.  "So  she  sent 
failure  to  Sol  Smith  Russell,"  said  Riley,  "and  Joseph 
Jefferson,  and  Mary  Anderson.  Russell  gave  an  en 
tertainment  over  in  Illinois,  and  the  boys  drove  him 
to  the  river.  Jefferson  when  a  boy  came  with  a  poor, 


14  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

little  itinerant  troupe  to  an  Indiana  town.  The  players 
could  not  pay  the  license  for  the  opera  house.  So  they 
called  their  play  a  concert  and  gave  it  in  an  empty 
pork  house,  little  Joe  singing  comic  songs  by  the  light 
of  a  tallow  candle.  Mary  Anderson  had  always  seen 
the  stage  across  the  footlights.  It  was  the  most  glit 
tering,  romantic  place  in  the  world.  But  when  she 
saw  it  from  the  alley  entrance,  with  just  one  dingy 
gas-jet  burning  in  the  center,  the  romance  turned  to 
blank  despair,  and  she  trudged  home  through  the  rain 
to  hide  herself  and  find  relief  in  tears.  It  is  all  very 
Well,"  Riley  concluded,  "for  the  people  to  laugh  at 
our  expense,  but  there  are  not  so  many  comic  songs 
in  a  pork-house  entertainment  as  they  think.  No 
more  Monrovia  in  mine!" 

Riley  returned  to  Greenfield,  knowing  all  sorts  of 
secrets  and  never  telling  them.  Although  he  avoided 
reference  to  Monrovia,  he  did  not  forego  his  ambition. 
Accordingly  he  hung  out  his  sign  in  front  of  his  shop : 
FANCY  PAINTER,  DELINEATOR  AND  CARICATURIST. 

In  1875,  having  recovered  from  the  shock  at  Mon 
rovia,  the  Delineator  and  Caricaturist  was  persuaded 
to  tempt  fortune  again.  This  time  he  did  not  do  his 
own  boosting  but  had  a  manager  beat  the  drum.  Riley 
thought  it  should  be  a  little  tour  through  the  "penny 
royal  circuit"  of  Central  Indiana.  The  manager  had 
his  eye  on  the  big  towns.  So,  for  a  beginning,  they 
chose  Anderson,  Lebanon  and  Crawfordsville.  Riley 
opposed  the  "big  towns"  because  he  had  nothing  to 
wear.  To  ease  his  mind  on  that  score,  the  manager 
went  his  security  for  a  fine  black  suit  and  a  high- 
crowned  black  hat.  The  bills  were  printed  in  a  neigh 
boring  town  to  keep  the  details  of  the  tour  a  secret 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM     15 

from  the  home-folks.  One  bill,  a  yard  long,  ran  as 
follows : 

RILEY 
THE 

AUTHOR, 
HUMORIST 

AND 

RECITATIONIST! 

Will  give  one  of  his 

NEW  AND 

original 
Entertainments ! 

at 

Anderson,  Saturday  Evening,  July  3  (1875) 
The  Programme  will  consist  of  Selections, 

HUMOROUS  AND  PATHETIC, 

From  our  best  writers,  together  with 

ORIGINAL  RECITATIONS, 

character  sketches  and 

POPULAR  BALLADS. 

This  Young1  and  Talented  Artist  is  particularly  pleas 
ing  and  happy  in  everything  he  attempts,  having  a 
keen  appreciation  of  the  Mirthful  Side  of  LIFE,  al 
loyed  with  a  fine  Poetic  Sense.  He  is  a  True  Student  of 

THE  GREAT  MASTER— NATURE. 

His  powers  of  Mimicry  are  free  from  all  the  strain  of 
rant  and  the  mock  heroic.  Easy,  graceful,  thoroughly 
at  "home,"  he  holds  his  throne,  the  rostrum  and 
reigns 


16  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

SOVEREIGN  OF  ALL  PASSIONS. 

Without  the  artifice  of  dress,  or  trickery  of  paint,  he 
stands  a  child  of  five,  or  a  tottering  old  man.  His 
facial  capabilities  seem  inexhaustible,  enabling  him  to 
look  the  thought  he  speaks  and  mirror  back  to  Life  its 

EVERY  PHASE  OF  CHARACTER! 

Cultured  and  refined,  with  a  true  conception  of  the 
MORAL  and  the  GOOD,  he  suffers  no  low  jest  or  vul 
gar  thought  to  desecrate  his  worth. 

HE  HAS  MET  WITH  THE  MOST  FLATTERING 

SUCCESS  WHEREVER  HE  HAS  APPEARED,  the 

more  especially  in  his  ORIGINAL  READINGS  AND 

HUMOROUS  PERSONATIONS. 

Don't  Fail  to  See  AND 

HEAR  HIM 

Admission        ,         •        ,        «        .        *        25  Cts. 

0.  H.  P.  MOORE, 

General 
MANAGER. 

Jeffersonian    Job    Print,    Franklin,    Ind. 

Borrowing  an  old  rockaway  for  the  trip,  Riley  and 
his  manager  drove  across  country  to  Anderson.  The 
program  for  the  evening  was  essentially  the  same  as 
that  given  at  Monrovia — recitations,  and  music  by 
himself  on  the  guitar.  The  door  receipts  were  fifteen 
dollars,  hall  rent  ten  dollars,  other  expenses  eight 
dollars — dead  loss,  three  dollars. 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM     17 

On  Sunday  there  was  a  lack  of  necessary  funds.  The 
rockaway  had  been  sent  home.  "The  next  day,"  said 
Riley,  "there  being  a  hitch  between  me  (party  of  the 
first  part)  and  my  manager  and  my  thorn  in  the  flesh 
(party  of  the  second  part),  I  boarded  the  Accommo 
dation,  and  at  night  crept  into  Greenfield  with  a  hang 
dog  look  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  man  floun 
dering  in  the  swamps  of  Tipton  County." 

Riley  attributed  the  failure  to  over-advertising  and 
imcfer-proficiency.  "Sovereign  of  all  Passions!"  he 
groaned — when  rereading  his  bill  twenty  years  after 
the  failure — "and  that  monstrous  line,  The  Mirthful 
Side  of  Life,  alloyed  with  a  fine  Poetic  Sense,  alloyed 
(debased  by  mixing);  great  God!  what  stupidity! 
That  damned  the  venture.  I  marvel  that  our  old  rock- 
away  was  not  shattered  by  a  thunderbolt. 

"It  is  never  safe,"  he  went  on,  "to  gloss  the  facts. 
You  can  no  more  deceive  the  people  than  live-stock 
boosters  can  trick  the  farmers.  No,  no,  it  will  not 
work.  To  sail  under  false  colors  is  to  invite  defeat. 
You  can  not  deceive  Mr.  Truth.  He  will  spot  you  as 
surely  as  Mark  Twain  spots  a  sham." 

The  Anderson  Democrat  thought  Riley's  entertain 
ment  was  a  credit  to  him.  It  showed  unmistakable 
evidence  of  dramatic  talent  and  literary  taste  of  a  high 
order,  which  only  needed  to  be  properly  cultivated 
to  place  him  in  the  front  rank.  The  Herald  said  the 
audience  was  small.  Several  of  the  recitations  were 
fairly  creditable;  but  want  of  training  was  apparent 
in  every  effort.  The  Herald  commended  to  Mr.  Riley  a 
liberal  use  of  a  life-size  mirror,  midnight  oil  and  the 
instruction  to  be  had  from  a  competent  drill-master. 
"There's  millions  in  it." 


18  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

On  recovering  from  his  second  failure,  Riley  took 
the  Herald's  admonition  to  heart.  He  remembered 
how  Dickens  walked  about  the  fields,  practising  four 
and  five  hours  a  day,  and  he  gave  heed  to  his  motto : 
"No  DAY  WITHOUT  A  LINE." 

For  two  years,  beginning  with  1876,  he  had  his 
way  about  reciting  in  the  churches  and  schoolhouses 
of  small  towns.  So  doing,  the  hall  rent  would  be 
nominal  and  the  audience  usually  sympathetic.  Oc 
casionally  there  would  be  some  hitch  in  the  advertis 
ing,  then  "the  house  would  be  dark"  and  there  would 
be  left  but  one  alternative — the  return  to  Greenfield 
without  funds.  "More  than  once,"  was  his  word,  "I 
dodged  the  tollgate  and  slipped  into  town  by  a  cir 
cuitous  route." 

The  humorous  predominated  in  his  readings.  "My 
lecture  on  Funny  Folks,"  he  wrote  his  Schoolmaster 
in  October,  1876,  "is  nearly  complete."  He  got  his 
cue  from  the  annual  forecast  of  talent  for  the  lecture 
platform.  The  bureaus  were  calling  for  humorists. 
Petroleum  V.  Nasby  was  to  tell  about  "Betsey  Jane." 
Mark  Twain  was  to  describe  "Buck  Fanshaw's  Fu 
neral"  and  tell  his  whistling  story.  Eli  Perkins  was 
to  lecture  on  the  "Philosophy  of  Fun."  The  Danbury 
News  Man  was  to  read  from  his  "Life  in  Danbury," 
and  Josh  Billings  from  his  "Almanac."  Last  and  not 
least,  Rile/s  favorite,  Bret  Harte,  was  to  be  in  the 
field  with  "Progress  of  American  Humor." 

By  the  beginning  of  1878,  Riley  had  gained  sufficient 
strength  and  popularity  to  stand  alone.  Committees 
usually  relieved  him  of  the  cares  of  printing  and  dis 
tributing  circulars.  "Come  to  the  Court  House  To 
night,"  invited  the  hand-bills  for  Newcastle.  "Don't 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM    19 

Forget  Riley — That  Leedle  Boy  of  Mine.  Music  by 
the  Cornet  Band."  At  Lewisville,  Indiana,  the  Pres 
byterian  Church  was  crowded.  "The  entertainment 
was  pleasing  and  profitable  to  all."  Riley  remembered 
that  on  this  occasion  the  admission  fee  was  ten  cents 
and  his  share  of  the  receipts  four  dollars.  "Imagine 
the  sensation!"  said  he,  "four  dollars  for  a  hungry 
poet!  I  ran  down  street  to  a  candy  store  and  bought 
enough  gingerbread  to  wall  a  well." 

At  Kokomo  a  week  later,  favorable  winds  began  to 
blow.  There  the  Hoosier  Delineator  and  Humorist 
won  fame  in  a  single  night.  Thenceforward  his  prom 
inence  in  the  lecture  field  was  assured.  The  initial 
step  was  taken  by  the  Humorist  himself  as  shown  in 
a  letter  to  his  friend,  J.  0.  Henderson : 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  January  24,  1878. 
Dear  Henderson: 

Noticing  the  paragraph  in  to-day's  Dispatch  that 
anything  from  Julius  Caesar  to  a  second-class  cancan 
would  catch  your  show-going  people  just  now,  I  write 
to  ask  what  chances  I  would  have  there  with  Original 
and  Select  Readings.  I  shall  have  my  program  com 
plete  and  ready  for  presentation  to  the  public  in  a 
few  days.  I  desire  to  answer  invitations  only.  The 
reason  of  course  will  be  obvious  to  you.  Can  you 
work  up  such  a  thing  for  me  in  Kokomo?  I  believe  I 
can  safely  promise  to  entertain  your  amusement-lov 
ing  people — provided  I  can  get  enough  of  them  to 
gether.  If  you  can  do  this  for  me  I  will  not  forget 
the  favor.  If  you  think  an  appearance  there  would 
not  be  feasible,  say  so,  and  I  will  seek  fresh  fields  and 
pastures  new. 

Most  gratefully  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 


20  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Five  months  before,  Kokomo  had  been  the  scene  of 
the  explosion  of  that  literary  torpedo,  the  Poe-Poem 
hoax.  Feeling  that  the  poet  had  suffered  long  enough 
the  community  resolved  to  make  amends  and  the  way 
it  did  it  was  capital.  The  entertainment  was  an 
nounced  from  all  the  church  pulpits,  and  all  church 
social  gatherings  were  postponed.  Tickets  were  sold 
at  the  Opera  House,  the  Post  Office,  a  drug  store  and 
a  book  store.  The  Dispatch  guaranteed  a  good  audi 
ence.  It  announced  that  the  poet  would  give  a  select 
reading  "by  special  request  of  our  leading  citizens." 
The  entertainment  would  "be  one  that  entertained." 
Handkerchiefs  would  be  needed.  "Let  us  give  the 
author  of  'Leonainie'  a  rousing  reception."  The  Trib 
une  announced  the  poet  as  "a  young  man  of  great  in 
tellectual  endowments.  February  14  (1878)  would  be 
his  first  appearance  before  a  Kokomo  audience."  On 
Wednesday  hand-bills  declared  that  the  poet  "was  a 
complete  master  of  the  humorous  and  pathetic,"  and 
that  he  could  tangle  these  elements  "till  you  would 
laugh  at  grief  and  weep  at  mirth."  Thursday  more 
bills  were  distributed: 

J.  W.  RILEY  TO-NIGHT 

Whoever  fails  to  hear  Riley  will  be  sick 
to-morrow,  when  the  praises  of  his  read 
ings,  imitations  and  perfect  dialect  sto 
ries  will  be  the  talk  of  the  town. 

The  result  was  just  what  the  Dispatch  promised,  a 
"good  audience."  Riley  had  agreed  to  read  for  a 
nominal  sum.  "Tell  it  not  in  Gath,"  he  wrote  the 
committee;  "I  will  come  for  five  dollars."  When  the 


EARLY  VENTURES  ON  THE  PLATFORM    21 

net  receipts  totaled  seventy  dollars,  he  felt  (to  use  his 
own  words)  as  if  he  had  cracked  his  powers  of  in 
vention. 

He  was  exceptionally  happy  in  his  program,  due 
doubtless  to  care  in  preparation  and  to  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  audience.  "The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue"  (a 
poem  by  the  youthful  George  Arnold)  afforded  him 
an  opportunity  to  impersonate  old  age,  the  role  that 
had  made  him  so  popular  in  The  Chimney  Corner.  The 
boys  and  girls  of  fifty  years  ago,  if  still  living,  will 
remember  the  sunshiny  smiles  on  the  wrinkled  old 
face,  and  how  the  pedagogue  chuckled  and  prattled — 

"I'm  a  pretty  old  man/'  he  gently  said, 

"I  have  lingered  along  while  here  below; 
But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled," 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue  long  ago. 

Riley  had  not  yet  gained  sufficient  courage  always  to 
acknowledge  the  authorship  of  his  own  poems.  "Out 
in  the  provinces,"  he  said,  "I  could  admit  I  was  a  poet, 
but  in  a  population  of  three  thousand  it  was  different." 
At  one  point  in  the  program,  after  reciting  "The  Lily 
Bud"  by  Anna  Poe  (a  little  rural  picture  in  which 
the  birth  of  a  child  reconciled  two  neighbors  who  had 
been  chronic  enemies),  he  disguised  his  authorship  of 
one  of  his  own  poems  as  follows:  "Here  is  a  selec 
tion,"  he  said,  taking  it  from  his  inside  coat  pocket, 
"which  a  friend  of  mine  threw  into  the  waste-basket. 
He  disliked  to  acknowledge  it,  but  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  he  was  a  follower  of  Wegg,  that  is,  some 
times  he  dropped  into  poetry.  If  you  will  lend  me 
your  ears  I  will  read  you  this  specimen  of  his  versifi 
cation" — on  which  he  recited  from  memory  his  beau- 


22  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

tiful  "Dream  of  Christmas,"  now  entitled  "Das  Krist 
Kindel." 

So  he  continued  through  the  program,  reading  many 
of  the  poems  that  later  in  his  books  and  on  the  plat 
form  brought  him  fame. 

This  highly  successful  Kokomo  evening  marks  the 
turn  in  the  tide  for  Riley  as  a  public  reader.  In  March 
he  received  fifteen  dollars  for  a  "lecture"  at  Tipton, 
and  the  same,  a  week  later,  in  Noblesville.  Admirers 
began  to  write  their  friends  about  him,  and  the  Indi 
anapolis  Journal  was  gratified  that  "the  Hoosier  Poet 
is  getting  talked  about  and  quarreled  over — a  sure 
sign  that  there  is  something  in  the  man." 

Thus,  at  the  beginning  of  1878,  Riley  was  vastly 
encouraged  "by  the  brightness  of  the  track  on  which 
he  had  to  throw  his  little  shadow." 


4  CHAPTER  II 

DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS 

FOR  two  years,  beginning  in  1878,  Riley  was  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  Kokomo  Tribune  and 
the  Indianapolis  Saturday  Herald.    Occasionally 
he  sent  verses  to  the  Kokomo  Dispatch,  the  Newcastle 
Mercury,  the  Locomotive  Fireman's  Magazine   (Indi 
anapolis)  and  the  Peoria  Call,  while  the  Indianapolis 
Journal  received  a  weekly  budget.     Less  frequently, 
prose  sketches  or  poems  found  their  way  to  the  In 
dianapolis  News  and  the  Cincinnati  Commercial. 

"The  way  to  ascertain,"  said  his  friend  Bill  Nye, 
"is  to  find  out."  If  newspapers  were  the  channels  for 
reaching  the  public,  the  sooner  the  medium  was  tested 
the  better.  So  he  began  "going  like  an  emery  wheel, 
scintillating  for  five  or  six  newspapers."  Soon  he 
showed  signs  of  overwork.  Friends  became  alarmed. 
Instead  of  flying  to  Mount  Helicon,  Pegasus  was  bear 
ing  him  with  all  speed  to  the  hospital.  Maurice  Thomp 
son  was  certain  "the  physical  frame  of  the  Indiana 
Burns  would  soon  wear  out"  and  so  wrote  to  the  New 
York  Independent.  Another  friend  feared  the  poet 
would  "attenuate  into  a  set  of  quivering  nerves  and 
a  pair  of  big,  wild,  hungry-looking  eyes.  Remember," 
this  friend  went  on,  "that  thirty  is  a  critical  age  for 
men  of  genius,  and  if  you  can  get  past  that  with  a 
sound  mind  and  a  fair  digestion  you  are  as  good  as 
elected  for  the  pantheon." 

23 


24  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Here,  when  Riley  was  nearing  thirty,  was  an  in 
gathering  of  prophets  whose  forebodings,  like  the 
prophecies  of  others  in  years  to  follow,  never  came 
true.  His  friends  had  many  kindly  misgivings  as  to 
his  powers  of  physical  endurance,  but  with  rare  ex 
ceptions,  they  failed  to  take  into  account  his  powers 
of  recuperation,  which  truly  were  astounding.  While 
the  doleful  comments  were  being  proclaimed  from  the 
housetops,  Riley  would,  quite  likely,  be  sitting  up 
serenely  in  bed  writing  a  poem.  A  day  or  so  later 
he  would  surprise  the  community  by  walking  down  the 
street  as  if  nothing  serious  had  happened — as  in  real 
ity  it  had  not.  "He  must  have  been  born  to  be  hung," 
was  about  all  there  was  left  for  his  friends  to  say. 
•  The  newspapers  of  that  day  did  not  pay  for  poetic 
contributions,  which  mattered  not  particularly  to  the 
poet,  except  that  he  must  have  food,  clothing  and  shel 
ter.  One  editor,  after  publishing  Riley's  poems  for  a 
year,  took  his  contributor  to  a  tailor  and  ordered  him 
a  suit.  "I  had  been  wearing  a  coat  of  many  colors 
and  wrinkles,"  said  Riley,  "a  vest  with  fringed  pockets, 
shiny  trousers,  a  seedy  hat,  and  a  fancy  pair  of  shoes 
picked  up  from  an  old  box  marked  'Out  of  Style.' 
When,  a  few  days  after  my  good  fortune,  I  walked 
down  the  street  in  a  swell  cashmere  suit,  my  native 
haunts  sat  up  and  took  notice.  There  was  much 
speculation  as  to  how  I  came  in  to  such  rare  posses 
sion.  I  had  never  been  accused  of  theft,  but  there 
was  ground  for  suspicion." 

The  editor  of  the  Peoria  Call,  like  many  other  peo 
ple,  had  been  watching  the  poet's  career  with  interest 
and  predicting  for  him  great  success.  The  Call  was 
young  and,  while  it  could  not  pay  poets,  it  could  afford 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       25 

to  pay  two  dollars  a  column  for  prose  contributions. 
Riley's  characteristic  reply  was  as  follows : 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  August  27,  1879. 
Dear  Friend: 

Right  now  I  am  going  down  among  my  juiciest  MSS. 
and  copy  for  the  Call,  the  very  ripest,  lushest  and 
mellowest  old  sonnet  of  the  lot,  and  if  you  like  son 
nets  as  I  like  them,  why,  you  will  suck  the  one  I  send 
you  like  a  pawpaw. 

I  appreciate  your  kindly  offer  of  remuneration  for 
contributions  and  feel  honored  that  you  really  desire 
my  work.  I  know  a  little  something  of  newspapers. 
I  would  ask  nothing  for  my  work — only  I'm  abso 
lutely  compelled  to — because  I  am  poorer  than  any 
newspaper.  But  I  am  a  smiler,  and  can  hook  the 
corners  of  my  mouth  as  far  back  over  my  ears  as  any 
little  man  you  ever  saw.  Tickles  me  when  you  say 
you  "have  a  great  curiosity  to  know  something  about 
me  personally,"  and  I  infer  from  this  remark,  that 
you  have  not  seen  a  recent  "Interview"  in  the  Chicago 
Tribune.  That  will  tell  you  all  about  me — and  I 
shudder  as  I  call  your  attention  to  the  fact. 
Truly  and  gratefully  yours, 

J.  W.  RlLEY. 

Many  poems  contributed  to  the  Kokomo  Tribune 
became  popular  immediately :  "A  Bride,"  "Romancin'," 
"The  Beetle,"  "The  Passing  of  a  Heart,"  "My  Henry," 
"Tom  Johnson's  Quit,"  and  "A  Lost  Love";  the  last 
appearing  in  October,  1880,  with  its  glimpse  of  mar 
ried  misery,  which  Sam  Jones  said  sounded  "like  the 
wail  of  a  defeated  political  party" : 

"He  sailed  not  over  the  stormy  sea, 
And  he  went  not  down  in  the  waves — not  he — 
But  0  he  is  lost — for  he  married  me — 
Good-by,  my  lover,  good-by." 


26  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Many  declared  "Romancin' "  the  finest  dialect  poem 
extant.  Hundreds  went  about  their  daily  work  repeat 
ing  "The  Beetle's"  refrain: 

"O'er  garden  blooms 
On  tides  of  musk, 

The  beetle  booms  adown  the  glooms 
And  bumps  along  the  dusk." 

"Here  comes  the  Tribune,"  wrote  the  poet's  friend, 
Dan  Paine  of  the  Indianapolis  News,  in  August,  1879. 
"That  infernal  Beetle  has  been  booming  and  bumping 
about  my  ears  all  day.  The  poem  is  just  crammed 
with  subtle  beauties.  Do  you  know  there  is  as  much 
imagery  and  poetry  in  the  work  you  have  turned  out 
this  week  as  would  suffice  many  a  man,  who  breaks 
into  the  magazines  at  a  round  price,  for  half  a  year. 
And  you  are  doing  it  for  nothing."  Others  expressed 
similar  opinions.  "Why  waste  genius  on  weekly 
papers?" 

But  Myron  Reed's  comment  was  different.  It  was 
not  a  waste  of  either  time  or  genius;  it  was  wise  to 
remain  a  while  longer  among  the  country  people.  Riley 
found  it  easy  to  abide  by  his  friend's  counsel.  Reed 
was  ten  years  his  senior.  "Burns,"  Reed  continued, 
"did  not  catch  the  characteristics  and  manners  of  the 
people  living  in  Edinburgh  until  Providence  had  pro 
vided  him  with  the  knowledge  of  people  living  in  the 
country.  He  held  his  ear  close  to  the  ground,  and  thus 
gained  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  himself.  To 
know  himself  was  his  constant  study.  He  weighed 
himself  alone;  he  balanced  himself  with  others;  he 
watched  every  means  of  information  to  see  how  much 
ground  he  occupied  as  a  man — and  as  a  poet.  No, 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       27 

you  are  not  wasting  your  time.  The  waste  of  time 
comes  when  we  go  to  gratify  our  desires  with  the 
vanities  of  the  city." 

In  his  latter  days  Reed  insisted  that  "Riley  was 
not  always  joking  when  he  said  he  could  write  five 
poems  a  day.  Then  his  poems  were  conceived  and 
written  in  the  fiery  ecstasy  of  the  imagination.  The 
tonic  of  the  spring  was  in  them — and  in  him.  His 
poems  were  trees,  green  and  flourishing,  quite  differ 
ent  from  the  withered,  sapless  ones  the  older  poets 
were  polishing  for  the  magazines." 

Indiana  slowly  awoke  to  the  realization  that  in  Riley 
she  had  found  an  interpreter,  and  one  can  pardon  her 
enthusiasm,  and  her  humor,  too,  in  spreading  the  fame 
of  her  favorite  singer  beyond  her  own  borders.  "If 
you  keep  on  the  way  you  are  now  going,"  wrote  a 
local  Maecenas,  "in  three  years  you  will  be  known  all 
over  Indiana,  Illinois  and  parts  of  Missouri/' 

"You  are  copied  in  exchanges,"  another  wrote, 
"from  Connecticut  to  Colorado.  To  you  more  than 
any  one  else  the  Kokomo  Tribune  owes  its  literary 
reputation."  "Don't  you  know,"  wrote  Mary  Hart- 
well  Catherwood,  "that  you  are  spreading  out  more 
rapidly  than  any  other  young  writer  in  the  United 
States?"  "You  are  going  hand  in  hand  with  General 
Grant  in  an  advertising  wagon  over  the  country," 
wrote  another  correspondent.  "Your  poem,  'My 
Henry/  will  travel  from  Maine  to  the  Golden  Gate.  I 
saw  it  last  week  in  the  New  York  Tribune" 

Now  and  then  there  was  a  voice  on  the  other  side, 
enough  to  make  things  interesting.  A  protest  came 
from  Maurice  Thompson.  Dialect  was  not  a  happy 
medium  for  the  transmission  of  song.  "I  shall  be 


28  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

sorry,"  he  wrote,  "if  Riley  depends  on  his  Tribune 
stuff  for  his  name  and  fame." 

As  interest  in  Riley  grew,  friends  urged  him  to 
come  out  in  book  form.  Burns  had  published  his  first 
book  by  the  time  he  was  thirty,  and  it  had  been  so 
well  received  that  new  prospects  had  been  opened  to 
his  poetic  ambition.  He  had  posted  away  to  the  city 
and  had  come  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the  noblest 
men  in  Edinburgh. 

A  tiny  cloud  rose  above  the  horizon,  according  to 
Riley,  in  the  summer  of  1879,  but  it  soon  vanished. 
"Mr.  J.  W.  Riley,"  ran  a  weekly  local,  "the  well-known 
poet  and  writer,  and  Mrs.  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood 
are  engaged  upon  a  joint  literary  production,  which 
will  appear  in  book  form."  "The  idea,"  said  Riley, 
"was  this :  An  obscure  genius  grows  up  in  the  jungles 
of  Hoosierdom,  a  poet — a  real  poet,  unhonored  and 
unsung.  By  the  merest  chance  he  discovers  a  young 
woman  in  the  East  who  writes  verses  not  unlike  his 
own.  One  of  her  poems  particularly  attracts  him,  and 
in  a  gust  of  admiration  he  writes  a  letter  of  honest 
congratulation,  to  which  she  gracefully  replies.  Again 
he  writes  asking  for  other  specimens  of  her  work. 
Thus  begins  a  correspondence.  Their  letters  are  re 
produced,  together  with  their  poems  and  sketches. 
Each  is  inspired  by  the  other  and  each  is  eager  to 
excel.  The  inevitable  follows,  the  young  Hoosier  van 
ishes  mysteriously,  and  in  due  time  brings  home  a 
bride  from  Boston — and  all  goes  merry  as  a  marriage 
bell.  Mrs.  Catherwood,"  Riley  added,  "was  to  write 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Christine  Braidly,  and  I 
was  to  answer  as  Thomas  Whittleford.  The  book, 
which  was  to  contain  the  poems  as  well  as  the  corre- 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       29 

spondence,  was  to  be  entitled  The  Whittleford  Letters, 
and  we  even  went  so  far  as  to  see  it  (in  our  minds) 
published  to  the  tune  of  twenty  thousand." 

"It  was  a  fine  air  castle/'  said  Mrs.  Catherwood, 
"but  neither  Miss  Braidly  nor  Mr.  Whittleford  could 
put  the  foundation  under  it.  Both  set  up  a  high  stand 
ard  of  writing.  There  was  to  be  no  rank  overgrowth 
of  words — just  the  plain  stalk  of  truth  springing  up 
and  blooming  in  its  own  purity.  But  quite  soon  the 
letters  grew  'gushy.'  Miss  Braidly  made  the  mistake 
of  asking  a  poet  to  write  poems  to  order.  She  might 
as  well  have  asked  him  to  extract  sunbeams  from  sea 
weed.  She  had  her  eccentricities  too.  She  had  mis 
chief  and  daring  in  her,  and  her  Creator  knew  it.  At 
times  she  was  tempestuous  as  the  sea.  Team-work 
with  such  a  combination  was  impossible.  It  would 
not  have  been  more  'lunatic'  had  some  swain  hitched 
a  zebu  and  a  bighorn  to  a  chaise  in  the  hope  of  reach 
ing  London." 

With  the  bursting  of  the  Whittleford  bubble,  Riley 
became  tranquil,  and  not  for  four  years  did  he  talk 
seriously  of  attempting  book  publication.  "Don't  rush 
into  print,"  said  Reed;  "rush  around  here  in  Central 
Indiana  towns  a  little  while  longer.  Bide  your  time." 

In  March,  1879,  Riley  joined  the  Tribune's  Home 
Department,  making  through  the  year  numerous  prose 
contributions.  He  also  wrote  "things  in  lighter  vein." 
A  little  chaff  among  the  wheat  was  his  recipe  for  a 
good  home  paper.  Some  critics  thought  his  poems  met 
the  requirements  in  that  regard,  but  at  any  rate  he 
became  the  "Tribune  humorist." 

The  Tribune  believed  that  a  newspaper  might  and 
should  become  as  profitable  and  as  acceptable  a  medium 


30  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

for  authors  as  the  magazines.  "The  state  which  builds 
up  a  literature  of  its  own,"  it  said  editorially,  "raises 
the  most  enduring  monument  in  the  world/'  Cherish 
ing  such  views,  exchanges  in  due  time  regarded  the 
Tribune  as  "one  of  the  best  home  journals  in  the 
West."  By  the  end  of  1879  it  had  a  host  of  sixty  con 
tributors,  about  all  the  writers  then  residing  in 
Indiana.  At  the  head  of  the  list  was  the  mysterious 
"John  C.  Walker."  Most  of  the  Riley  poems,  after 
ward  currently  known  as  the  Walker  poems,  were  con 
tributed  and  printed  over  that  nom  de  plume.  Natur 
ally  speculation  was  rife  as  to  who  was  their  author. 
Other  contributors  were  as  truly  in  the  dark  about  it 
as  were  the  readers.  The  Peoria  Call  gave  the  Tribune 
credit  for  "introducing  the  new  dialect  poet,  John  C. 
Walker,  to  the  literary  world." 

"On  a  single  page  of  my  scrapbook,"  wrote  D.  S. 
Alexander,  afterward  congressman  from  Buffalo,  New 
York,  "Riley  runs  the  gamut  of  feeling.  I  clipped  his 
sonnet,  'Babyhood/  from  the  Boston  Advertiser.  A 
dozen  lines  on  'Sleep*  were  thought  good  enough  for 
the  New  York  Evening  Post.  His  poem,  'The  Shower,' 
strayed  away  up  into  Canada.  Without  name  or  credit 
they  were  traveling  like  gold  pieces  on  their  intrinsic 
worth,  as  valuable  in  New  England  as  in  Indiana. 
Turning  a  leaf  I  find  dialect  poems  attributed  to  John 
C.  Walker.  How  clean  they  are — not  an  oath  or  sem 
blance  of  vulgar  witticism  in  one  of  them.  Riley  has 
not  owned  these  'Walker  poems/  but  if  he  did  not 
write  them — there's  no  use  guessing." 

On  receiving  the  famous  letter  from  Longfellow, 
Riley,  overjoyed,  promptly  wrote  his  friend,  Ben 
Parker  of  the  Newcastle  Mercury.  In  the  same  month 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       31 

(November,  1876),  the  Mercury  printed  three  Riley 
sonnets,  "Dawn,"  "Dusk"  and  "Night,"  then  entitled 
"Morning,"  "Evening"  and  "Night."  In  December, 
"If  I  Knew  What  Poets  Know"  appeared  in  the  Mer 
cury  columns.  "Our  only  excuse,"  said  Parker,  "for 
taking  such  liberty  with  an  effusion  sent  only  for  the 
private  inspection  of  the  editor,  is  that  it  is  so  lovely 
we  can  not  resist  the  temptation  to  print  it." 

In  June  of  that  Centennial  Year,  the  Mercury 
printed  part  of  "The  Silent  Victors,"  which  Riley  had 
written  in  May,  to  be  read  at  Newcastle  Decoration 
Day.  "Riley  taught  us,"  said  Parker,  recalling  the 
Memorial  poem,  "to  see  our  dead  in  the  flowers  that 
burst  from  the  ground.  In  1861  we  saw,  with  tear- 
dimmed  eyes,  our  young  men  march  away.  In  1876  the 
poet  came  to  twine  wreaths  upon  the  stones  that  stood 
like  sentinels  at  their  graves.  All  suddenly  came  the 
vision — 

While  in  the  violet  that  greets  the  sun, 

We  see  perchance,  the  eye  whose  light  has  flown; 

And  in  the  blushing  rose,  the  cheek  of  one 
That  used  to  touch  our  own.' 

Here  was  something  new,  a  revelation  to  weeping 
mothers  and  sweethearts,  a  holy  silence  around,  that 
they  had  not  experienced  before." 

Henceforth  from  1876  the  Mercury  was  ever  a  Riley 
champion.  Sometimes  it  criticized,  but  always  for  his 
good.  It  gave  free  circulation  to  the  "Walker  poems" 
and  heartily  enjoyed  its  discovery  that  Riley  was  their 
author. 

Riley's  contributions  to  the  Indianapolis  Saturday 
Herald  covered  the  same  period  as  those  to  the  Kokomo 


32  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Tribune,  the  last,  in  February,  1880,  being  a  dainty 
little  valentine: 

"With  a  bunch  of  baby-roses  in  a  vase  of  filigree, 
And  hovering  above  them — just  as  cute  as  he  could 

be-. 
Was  a  fairy  Cupid  tangled  in  a  scarf  of  poetry." 

Since  the  poet's  contributions  to  the  Herald  were 
said  by  eminent  critics  to  be  his  best  work,  it  seemed 
an  auspicious  beginning  that  among  his  first  should 
be  "An  Autumnal  Extravaganza,"  another  invocation 
to  the  Muse.  The  Muse  dazzled  his  mind.  She  was 
an  Autumn  maiden  filling  his  heart  with  a,  passion  so 
intense,  earthly  eloquence  failed  to  describe  her.  He 
wanted  to  kneel  at  her  feet  and  worship  her.  "Let 
the  winds,"  he  implored, 

"Blow  aside  the  hazy  veil 
From  the  daylight  of  your  face; 
Let  me  see  the  things  you  see 
Down  the  depths  of  Mystery!" 

"Riley's  poetic  fire,"  said  George  C.  Harding,  editor 
of  the  Herald,  "had  been  smoldering  under  a  cargo  of 
depression,  just  flickering,  gasping  for  fuel.  When  at 
last  the  Muse  began  to  twang  the  lyre,  he  was  electric. 
As  he  himself  said,  the  flames  leaped  up  roaringly  and 
illumined  the  heart  like  a  torchlight  procession." 

Appearing  in  the  Herald  were  such  popular  poems 
as  "The  Tree-Toad,"  "Tom  Van  Arden,"  "Dan  Paine," 
"God  Bless  Us  Every  One,"  "Babyhood,"  "A  Sleeping 
Beauty,"  "A  Dream  of  Autumn,"  "Old-Fashioned 
Roses,"  "The  Little  Town  o'  Tailholt"  and  "Moon- 
Drowned,"  always  lovingly  enshrined  in  its  author's 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       33 

heart.  Like  the  poems  for  the  Kokomo  Tribune,  these 
soon  began  a  vagabond  existence,  finding  temporary 
resting  places  in  the  corners  of  the  world's  exchanges. 

There  was  one,  however,  that  the  exchanges  did  not 
relish,  Riley's  first  long  poem,  "The  Flying  Islands  of 
the  Night."  Warmly  approved  by  many  and  as  sav 
agely  criticized  by  others,  its  reception  had  a  parallel 
in  that  given  Keats'  "Endymion."  In  writing  it,  Riley, 
like  Keats,  had  plunged  headlong  into  the  sea  regard 
less  of  shoals  and  quicksands;  and,  like  Keats  again, 
Riley  was  greatly  disappointed  that  it  was  so  un 
favorably  received,  although  he  was  not  so  broken  in 
spirit. 

"In  The  Flying  Islands/  "  said  Riley,  "I  attempted 
to  write  a  drama  out  of  nothing  to  stand  on  and  no 
place  to  stand.  The  ambrosia  that  nourished  my  fancy 
came  from  undiscovered  regions  in  dim  oceans  of 
space.  The  poem  more  nearly  approaches  a  creation 
than  anything  I  have  done — but  I  am  not  here  to  ex 
plain  it  nor  to  tell  how  I  wrote  it.  That  is  a  mystery 
to  me  as  it  is  to  others." 

At  a  later  period,  writing  Mr.  Joseph  Knight  of 
England,  Riley  said  that  there  was  nothing  left  "but 
to  confess  the  work  as  simply  and  entirely  a  fabrica 
tion  of  fancy — purposely  and  defiantly  avoiding,  if 
possible,  any  reference  to  any  former  venture  or 
accomplishment  of  any  writer,  dead  or  living — though 
in  this  acknowledgment  I  hasten  to  assure  you  that  no 
spirit  of  irreverence  as  I  wrote  was  either  in  posses 
sion  of  or  parcel  of  my  thought.  It  was  all  bred  of  an 
innocent  desire  to  do  a  new  thing.  I  argued  simply  in 
this  wise:  Some  mind,  sometime,  invented  fairies, 
and  their  realm.  So  with  mermaids  and  their  king- 


34  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

dom — and  so  I  went  on  with  the  illimitable  list  till  I 
found 

'The  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea, 
And  the  infinite  spaces' 

all — all  occupied.  So,  obviously,  I  had  in  my  crying 
dilemma,  to  put  up  with  flying  islands,  together  with 
such  inhabitants  thereon,  as  I  might  hope  to  suggest 
if  not  create." 

The  drama  was  the  fourth  in  a  series  of  six  prose 
sketches  interspersed  with  poems,  entitled  "The  Re 
spectfully  Declined  Papers  of  the  Buzz  Club,"  printed 
anonymously  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1878,  and 
copyrighted  in  October — not  with  the  design  of  then 
making  a  book,  but  simply  to  protect  the  author's 
claims. 

Like  the  "Flying  Islands,"  the  "Buzz  Club"  was 
constructed  out  of  nothing.  It  was  purely  a  Riley 
creation.  The  object  of  its  meetings  was  "to  listen 
and  learn  and  to  join  in  a  hullabaloo  of  delight."  Its 
roster  had  a  list  of  twenty-five  members,  but  when  the 
roll  was  called  only  four  responded — "four  literary 
enthusiasts  living  in  the  town  of  Greenfield,  Hancock 
County."  What  they  said  at  the  Club  meetings  and  the 
papers  they  read  were  duly  reported  and  printed  in 
the  Saturday  Herald. 

There  was  a  Mr.  Hunchley,  the  president  of  the 
Club,  and  a  Mr.  Plempton,  whose  contributions  showed 
a  faint  contempt  for  his  co-workers.  And  Mr.  Click- 
wad,  "the  fantastic  figure  of  the  group,"  as  Riley 
wrote,  "an  enduring  surprise,  an  eternal  enigma — 
erratic,  abrupt,  eruptive,  and  interruptive ;  a  com 
batant  of  known  rules  and  models,  a  grotesque  defier 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       35 

of  all  critical  opinion,  whose  startling  imagination 
was  seemingly  at  times  beyond  his  control  even  had 
he  cared  to  bridle  it." 

Mr.  Clickwad  manifested  Riley  characteristics  at 
all  the  meetings,  as  did  also  the  fourth  member  of  the 
Club,  Mr.  Bryce,  "a  sad-faced,  seedy  gentleman,  of  a 
slender  architecture,  and  a  restless  air  indicative  of 
a  highly  sensitive  temperament.  He  wore  no  badge 
of  age  save  that  his  beardless  face  was  freaked  about 
the  corners  of  his  eyes,  nose  and  mouth  with  wrinkles. 
His  dress,  although  much  worn  and  sadly  lacking  in 
length  of  leg  and  sleeve,  still  held  a  certain  elegance 
that  retained  respect." 

He  was  introduced  to  the  Club  at  its  second  meeting 
as  follows:  "Gentlemen,"  said  the  president  with  a 
radiant  smile,  "I  have  the  honor  of  introducing  to 
your  notice  a  gentleman  whose  intrinsic  talents  the 
world  is  yet  to  hear  from,  when  the  plaudits  of  a 
nation  shall  infest  the  atmosphere.  A  genius  and  an 
artist  all  combined  in  a  music  box  of  nature  and  a 
masterwork  of  mind.  A  dawning  star  whose  brilliance 
shall  permeate  the  gloom,  of — of — histrionic  history — 
and — and — but  why  continue  in  a  vein  of  prophetic 
possibilities?  Gentlemen,  as  I  said  before,  I  present 
to  your  notice  and  esteem  the  rising  young  actor  and 
character-artist,  Mr.  J.  Burt  Bryce." 

It  was  said  the  young  actor's  eyelashes  drooped 
demurely  at  the  warm  welcome.  "Highly  compli 
mentary,"  remarked  Riley  years  after.  "The  illus 
trious  actor,  your  little  bench-leg  favorite,  went  to  bed 
that  night  with  his  boots  on,  and  his  head  swelling 
like  a  puff  fish/* 

When  Riley  admitted  that  he  was  the  author  of  the 


36  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"Flying  Islands,"  friends  "shed  luster  on  his  name" 
by  dubbing  him  "Mr.  Bryce  of  the  Buzz  Club,"  or  if 
the  duality  of  his  genius  was  in  mind,  "Bryce  and 
Clickwad." 

Editors  were  at  sixes  and  sevens  about  Mr.  Click- 
wad.  "Who,"  asked  one,  "writes  the  'Buzz  Club 
Papers'?  They  remind  one  of  the  Pickwick  Papers, 
but  poor  Dickens  is  beyond  accusation.  The  poetry  is 
excellent,  some  of  it  scarcely  surpassable  for  freshness 
and  sweetness.  Our  own  J.  W.  Riley  will  have  to 
groom  his  Pegasus  with  critical  care,  or  he  will  fetch 
up  a  length  behind.  We  can  understand  how  a  man 
can  excel  in  a  specialty — how  a  poet  may  reach  dizzy 
altitude  in  a  particular  field,  but  the  capacity  to 
startle  and  please  in  any  part  of  the  poetic  realm— 
that  indeed  occasions  surprise." 

At  one  of  the  Club  meetings,  Mr.  Clickwad  having 
prepared  a  little  volume  to  read  on  the  occasion,  the 
members  were  asked  to  "accept  it  in  its  virgin  form, 
bare,  bald,  and  stark  of  either  index,  notes  or  glos 
sary."  Clearing  his  throat  vehemently  and  turning 
abruptly  to  his  manuscript,  he  read  "The  Flying 
Islands  of  the  Night."  Was  there  really  a  poet  by  the 
name  of  Clickwad,  Herald  readers  were  asking,  and  if 
so,  where  did  he  live,  and  what  was  his  history?  The 
public  did  not  know. 

When  the  popular  poem,  "Her  Beautiful  Hands," 
appeared  in  the  "Club  Papers,"  friends  were  certain 
Riley  was  its  author.  Still  he  was  disinclined  to  burst 
the  bubble.  He  allowed  the  report  to  be  circulated 
that  the  "Buzz  Club"  author  had  most  grievously  pur 
loined  one  of  the  Hoosier  Poet's  priceless  effusions. 
Even  after  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Clickwad  was  a 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       37 

fiction,  Riley  added  to  the  bewilderment  by  attacking 
his  own  productions.  An  instance  was  an  unsigned 
editorial  in  the  Herald.  "  'The  Flying  Islands  of  the 
Night/"  he  said,  "has  thrown  many  of  the  small 
rhymers  into  a  chasm  of  misery.  They  writhe  and 
wail  and  gnash  their  teeth  in  dismay.  Some  are  deter 
mined  they  will  not  lie  supinely  while  J.  W.  Riley,  the 
poet,  rides  triumphantly  over  them  with  his  imposing 
train  of  Wunks,  Spirks,  Crools  and  Wamboos.  In 
stead  of  admiring  the  originality  of  conception  and 
the  fantastic  fancy  its  author  displays  in  the  poem, 
they  condemn  it  because  it  is  quite  unlike  anything 
they  have  ever  read.  Not  one  of  the  critics  appears 
to  remember  that  the  work  is  given  to  the  public 
through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Clickwad,  an  individual  of 
peculiar  personality  and  eccentric  mind  and  manners, 
exactly  the  character  to  give  off  mental  emanations  of 
original  flavor." 

Among  those  whom  Riley  perplexed  by  his  secrecy 
and  evasion  was  Mr.  Enos  B.  Reed,  the  editor  of  the 
Indianapolis  People,  who  for  some  time  had  been  set 
ting  his  seal  of  disapproval  on  about  everything  the 
poet  wrote.  The  People  was  seldom  happier  than 
when  holding  Riley  up  to  ridicule.  While  Riley  was 
unfavorably  criticizing  the  "Flying  Islands,"  the  editor 
of  the  People  was  praising  it ;  for  one  reason,  at  least, 
because  Riley  was  against  it.  It  contained  "some  of 
the  sweetest  gems  that  ever  sparkled  from  a  soul  on 
fire."  When,  however,  the  editor  discovered  that  Riley 
was  its  author,  the  poem  was  branded  "an  ignominious 
failure." 

This  was  a  situation  that  filled  Riley  and  his  Green 
field  associates  with  uncontrollable  mirth.  "We  hid 


38  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

away  in  back  lots/'  said  one,  "and  cackled  like  a  flock 
of  buff  cochins." 

Comment  on  the  "Flying  Islands"  was  about  equally 
divided — favorable  and  unfavorable.  "It  is  now  pretty 
generally  known,"  said  the  Indianapolis  Herald 
(August,  1878),  "that  Mr.  J.  W.  Riley  is  the  author 
of  the  'Buzz  Club  Papers.'  Such  remarkable  versa 
tility,  such  captivating  originality,  and  such  exquisite 
tenderness  as  he  has  shown  in  the  construction  of  his 
poems  are  seldom  found  in  any  author.  The  'Flying 
Islands*  will  forever  fly,  a  strange  vision  of  beauty,  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  read  them." 

At  first  Riley  was  startled  and  chagrined  at  the 
criticism  of  his  long-time  friend,  B.  S.  Parker  of  New 
castle.  Later  he  read  and  reread  it,  "chewed,  swal 
lowed  and  digested  it,"  he  said.  "  'The  Flying  Islands 
of  the  Night/  "  wrote  Parker  in  the  Mercury.  "What 
is  it?  Well,  we  don't  know.  It  is  a  waif  of  nothing 
on  a  warp  of  nought.  It  is  a  drama  in  which  beings 
appear  that  never  existed  anywhere  except  in  Riley's 
brain,  and  they  inhabit  countries  the  very  names  of 
which  are  foreign  to  anything  else  on  the  earth  except 
Riley's  fancy.  They  are  not  fairies  such  as  used  to 
inhabit  earth  and  hold  high  carnival  in  the  corollas  of 
wood  flowers,  but  they  are  new  creations.  The  poem  is 
full  of  pretty  pictures,  but  no  practical  soul  can  ever 
guess  what  they  mean. — 

'When  kings  are  kings,  and  kings  are  men — 

And  the  lonesome  rain  is  raining — 
O  who  shall  rule  from  the  red  throne  then, 
And  who  shall  wield  the  scepter  when — 
When  the  winds  are  all  complaining?' 


DISTINCTION  ON  WEEKLY  PAPERS       39 

Beautiful,  is  it  not?  But  what  does  it  mean?  Well, 
what  does  Poe's  'Ulalume'  mean?  It  means  the  same 
that  this  does,  an  expression  of  the  beautiful  in  melody 
and  rhythm,  that  is  so  exquisite  of  itself  it  constitutes 
a  living  excellence.  But  Mr.  Riley  wants  to  call  a 
halt  in  that  direction  now.  One  or  two  successes  in 
nonsense  rhyme  is  all  that  any  man  can  achieve.  The 
public  is  patient,  but  practical,  and  too  much  of  that 
sort  of  thing  puts  it  out  of  humor,  and  once  out  of 
humor  it  is  hard  to  Woo  back." 

After  warring  in  vain  with  the  critics,  Riley  began 
to  sigh  for  peace.  "Enough  of  this  pelting  and  pom 
meling,"  he  wrote  his  old  Schoolmaster  friend.  "I  am 
tired  of  flying.  Give  me  a  parachute.  I  want  to  make 
a  landing.  Shelter  me  in  some  sleeping  wilderness,  so 
far  from  the  rustle  of  a  newspaper  and  the  strife  of 
tongues  that  the  moan  of  a  dove  will  swoon  on  the 
silence." 

Such  seclusion  being  unavailable,  Riley  called  at  the 
Saturday  Herald  office.  Myron  Reed  had  been  in  a 
few  days  before  and  expressed  himself  forcibly.  "I 
am  glad  to  hear,"  said  Reed  (as  recorded  by  the 
editor),  "that  Riley  has  called  for  a  parachute.  I  do 
not  say  that  he  should  not  write  another  Tlying 
Islands/  I  agree  with  others  that  the  poem  is  musical. 
I  rejoice  that  its  author  sees  love  in  the  eyes  of  a 
Wunkland  princess.  We  may  speculate  about  what 
life  in  the  stars  is  like,  and  Riley  in  his  astronomical 
drama,  from  the  view-point  of  the  stars,  may  set  his 
characters  to  wondering  what  life  on  the  earth  is  like 
— but  it  must  not  become  habitual.  Riley  says  he  does 
not  write  of  things  above  the  clouds  and  under  the 


40  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

earth  because  he  does  not  see  and  hear  them.  He 
should  abide  by  his  own  preaching.  That  sort  of  poetry 
is  written  to  order  by  a  clique  of  literary  primroses. 
It  is  not  a  picture  drawn  from  life  or  taken  on  the 
spot.  What  would  you  think  of  a  newspaper  man 
shutting  himself  up  in  a  room  to  write  the  news  of  the 
day?  He  could  give  you  a  series  of  words  gram 
matically  arranged,  but  it  would  not  be  news.  The 
best  newspaper  men  tell  truthfully  what  they  have 
seen  and  heard,  and  so  do  the  best  poets.  Skyrocketing 
is  for  the  few.  The  multitude  require  manna,  such 
poems  as  'The  Lost  Path/  'A  Mother-Song'  and  'My 
Bride  That  Is  to  Be.'  The  poet  who  writes  things  like 
these  hears  the  trudge  of  humanity.  Riley  can  not 
afford  to  put  things  together  by  the  wrong  end.  He 
will  not  reach  the  people  by  flying  away  in  a  high 
wind,  on  a  broomstick.  The  ocean  we  call  the  earth 
over  which  we  have  to  sail  is  wide  enough — and  there 
will  be  fogs  enough  before  we  reach  port." 

What  Reed  said  was  duly  detailed  to  Riley  and, 
according  to  the  editor,  it  was  digested  and  assimilated. 
Afterward  the  poet  occasionally  enveloped  a  short 
poem  with  mystery — but  never  again  an  astronomical 
drama. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

RILEY  was  suspicious  of  friends  when  he  should 
have  been  trustful.  The  seeds  of  distrust  were 
sown  early.  When  a  lad  in  Greenfield  he  was 
lured  from  town  by  a  boy  who  assured  him  there  were 
trees  in  the  woods  that  dripped  honey  as  the  maples 
dripped  sugar-water.  When  they  reached  the  center 
of  a  huge  poplar  grove  on  Little  Brandywine  the  boy 
turned  suddenly  and  said:  "It  is  a  lie — there  ain't 
no  such  trees."  With  that  the  boy  ran  away,  laugh 
ing,  leaving  young  Riley  to  find  his  way  out  of  the 
woods  as  best  he  could.  "I  was  a  turtle,"  said  Riley; 
"the  bad  boy  turned  me  over  on  my  back  and  left  me. 
I  cried  all  the  way  home,  not  because  I  was  lost,  but 
because  I  had  been  deceived." 

The  love  of  a  friend,  "the  shining  of  a  face  upon  a 
face" — no  substitute  for  that.  It  is  a  poem  with  soul 
in  it.  Heaven  admonished  the  poet  to  live  that  poem, 
but  he  did  not  always  do  it.  On  the  contrary,  he  fre 
quently  exercised  his  "incapacity  for  lovely  associa 
tion."  "It  is  in  my  flesh,"  he  often  repeated,  "the  sin 
that  dwelleth  in  me;  the  good  which  I  would  do  I  do 
not,  and  the  evil  which  I  would  not  do  I  do," — and 
then  came  the  hours  of  lonely  remorse. 

The  poet  was  ever  ready  to  ratify  treaties  of  friend 
ship,  but  after  they  were  ratified  he  wanted,  some 
times,  to  maintain  them  on  about  the  same  terms 

41 


42  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

that  David  Copperfield's  mother  maintained  friendly 
relations  with  Peggotty:  You  are  my  true  friend, 
Peggotty,  I  know,  if  I  have  any  in  this  world. 
When  I  call  you  a  ridiculous  creature,  or  a  vexutious 
thing,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  I  only  mean  that  you 
are  my  true  friend.  So  it  was  that  the  poet  lost  a 
friend,  now  and  again,  through  no  fault  of  the  friend. 
An  instance  of  his  plain  speaking  and  the  remorse  fol 
lowing  it  is  pathetically  disclosed  in  an  early  letter  to 
Charles  Philips  of  Kokomo: 

The  Morgue,  Midnight,  August  15,  1879. 
Dear  Charles: 

I  wrote  you  last  evening,  requesting  especially,  that 
you  should  answer  me  to-night,  and  looked  certainly 
for  a  reply — for  you  have  never  failed  me.  But  there 
was  none.  I  can  not  tell  you  the  depth  of  my  disap 
pointment  and  anxiety — for  all  evening  I  have  gone 
about  with  a  strange  feeling  of  heaviness,  and  at  last 
it  has  grown  intolerable  and  I  have  just  risen  from 
my  sleepless  bed  to  write  you  this.  In  my  letter  of 
last  evening  I  fear  I  unintentionally  wounded  you,  and 
that  you  are  "striking  back"  with  silence.  I  wrote 
hurriedly,  I  know,  but  it  was  with  the  very  warmest 
feeling  of  brotherly  regard.  What  I  said,  I  distinctly 
said  for  the  eifect  of  force  more  than  elegance,  but  it 
was  not  meant  to  hurt — neither  was  it  as  I  thought  an 
undue  license  in  one  as  warmly  interested  in  you  as 
your  own  true  character  compels  me  to  be.  When  I 
like  any  one,  perhaps  it  is  my  fault  to  enter  too  deeply 
into  their  personal  affairs,  or,  in  other  words — am  in 
clined  to  meddle  with  matters  that  do  not  concern  me. 
If  I  have  done  this  with  you,  I  earnestly  ask  you  to 
regard  it  as  an  insane  burst  of  affection,  for  at  worst 
it  is  that.  I  don't  think  you  understand  my  real 
nature.  I  have  thought  different  at  times,  but  as  I 
write,  I  fear  with  a  regret  there  is  no  name  for,  that 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  43 

like  the  grand  majority,  you  misjudge  me.  I  do  not 
blame  you  if  you  do,  only  it  hurts,  my  dear  friend, 
just  to  wade  on  through  existence  as  I  do  with  not 
one  soul  of  all  the  world's  wide  millions  that  will  see 
me  as  I  am.  I  try  very  hard  to  laugh  down  this  idea 
of  mine  that  I  am  being  eternally  misinterpreted,  but 
every  fresh  experience  only  seems  more  firmly  to  fix 
and  rivet  the  truth  of  it  within  me.  When  I  tell  my 
friend  I  love  him,  I  love  him.  There  is  no  play  in  the 
grooves  of  my  affection.  And  when  a  friend  slides 
in  my  heart  he  fits  there  and  the  bony  hand  of  Death 
can  not  jostle  him.  Maybe  I  do  you  wrong  to  doubt 
the  strength  of  your  regard,  but  I  want  such  giant 
strengths  of  friendship  that  sometimes  I  think  my 
own  will  never  be  matched  here — that  it  is  more  than 
I  could  ask  or  expect.  In  any  instance  I  am  what  I 
am.  God  made  me  so,  and  if  I  do  not  pass  for  my 
full  value  here,  Heaven  will  be  brighter  comprehend 
ing  it. 

To-morrow  I  go  down  to  Indianapolis.  I  may  not 
hope  to  see  you  then  as  I  desired;  but  wherever  you 
are  through  life  and  death  feel  always  that  my  love  is 
with  you. 

J.  W.  RILEY. 

Not  being  a  poet,  Philips  could  not  in  entirety  under 
stand  a  poet.  Soon,  however,  the  two  men  were  recon 
ciled,  and  years  later,  after  the  editor's  death,  the  poet 
was  proud  to  say  at  a  banquet  that  he  had  been  "the 
guest  of  one  of  the  loveliest  men  he  had  ever  known, 
the  bright  young  editor  of  the  Kokomo  Tribune." 

As  shown  by  the  letter  to  the  editor,  Riley's  attitude 
toward  friendship  was  one  of  extremes.  He  was 
either  on  the  housetop  ivith  them  or  in  the  basement 
ivithout  them.  There  was  no  middle  ground;  they 
must  be  at  the  extremity  of  the  fraternal  scale,  the 
upper  extremity  of  course,  and  when  they  were  not 


44  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

there  they  did  not  answer  the  requirements.  If  they 
were  impatient  with  his  feverish,  often  unintelligible 
moods,  so  much  the  worse  for  them. 

Nevertheless,  in  those  early,  providential  years, 
many  friends  gathered  around  the  poet.  There  was  a 
brotherly  conspiracy  to  promote  his  welfare,  a  com 
bined  desire — first  among  a  few  editors  and  writers, 
and  soon  among  the  people — to  enlist  under  the  poet's 
banner.  It  is  remarkable  the  host  of  unselfish  ad 
mirers  who,  through  a  period  of  forty  years,  came 
forward  with  outstretched  friendly  hand. 

In  that  brotherly  conspiracy  were  two  friends  who 
deserve  from  the  reader  more  than,  a  bowing  acquaint 
ance — two  friends,  who  could  not  come  too  often  nor 
stay  too  long — two  men,  according  to  Riley,  whose 
influence  during  his  maturing  years  was  most  potent 
— Robert  Burdette  and  Myron  Reed.  Burdette  was 
the  poet's  sponsor  on  the  platform ;  Reed  in  literature. 

"Longfellow  discovered  poetic  insight  in  me,"  said 
Riley;  "Reed  also  discovered  it,  but  he  did  more;  he 
helped  to  bring  it  out."  Those  who  should  know  have 
said  that,  had  it  not  been  for  Reed,  the  public  never 
would  have  enjoyed  the  Riley  poems — an  exaggeration, 
of  course,  although  Riley,  ever  grateful  to  his  friend, 
said,  "It  is  the  truth." 

"I  pushed  off  from  shore,  through  channels  of  chance 
and  peril,"  Riley  continued,  "with  such  pilots  as  the 
Fates  provided ;  but  out  there  in  the  offing,  beyond  the 
sand  bars,  were  two  friends  awaiting  me  whose  faith 
in  my  future  never  wavered.  They  knew  that  human 
hopes  have  their  roots  in  human  needs ;  their  love  pre 
vailed  to  the  end."  Late  in  life  the  poet  recalled  that 
they  had  often  been  true  to  him  when  he  was  untrue 


ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE,  WHO  INTRODUCED  THE  POET  TO  THE  LECTURE 

PLATTOBM 


Courtesy  Indianapolis  Literary  Club 

MYRON  W.  REED 
From  a  portrait  bv  T.  C.  Steele 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  45 

to  himself.  They  did  for  him  what  time  does  for  all 
homely  history — they  softened  his  asperities  and 
beautified  his  inequalities  with  their  love.  "We  loved 
Riley  so  zealously,"  said  Burdette,  "that  we  almost 
made  his  faults  venerable — what  time  has  done,  in  a 
way,  for  Robert  Burns." 

The  two  friends  appeared  on  Riley's  horizon  before 
he  was  thirty,  and  were  thus  champions  of  his  youth 
as  well  as  of  his  maturity.  He  met  one  of  them,  after 
a  long  absence,  and  thus  described  the  meeting: 

"And  there  was  something  in  his  tone, 

And  in  his  look  of  love — 
And  there  was  something  in  my  own, 

The  present  knows  not  of: — 
We  stood  forgetful  of  To-day; 

And  all  its  later  store 
Of  love  and  wealth  was  swept  away, 

As  we  struck  hands  once  more. 

"To  meet  fulfillment  of  our  dreams 
Is  very  sweet;  to  know 

The  need  of  gold,  and  gain  it,  seems 
A  good  for  high  and  low ; 

And  sweet  is  love  without  regret, 
And  lips  that  kiss  and  cling, 

But  youthful  friendship  faithful  yet— 
That  is  the  sweetest  thing." 

Riley  speculated  considerably  on  the  origin  of  friend 
ships.  Their  coming  into  his  life  was  like  the  birth  of 
poems — a  mystery.  He  could  not  account  for  affinities 
any  more  than  he  could  for  antipathies.  Burdette  had 
come  down  from  a  village  in  Pennsylvania,  and  Reed 
from  the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont.  Who  started 
and  guided  them  to  the  Hoosier  Poet's  door?  "Friends 


46  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

are  made  by  something  that  can  not  be  planned,"  was 
Reed's  word  to  the  poet.  "You  never  made  a  friend  on 
purpose  in  your  life.  That  a  magnet  will  assemble 
steel  filings  was  not  settled  by  an  act  of  Congress." 

"Friends  take  possession  of  me,  I  suppose,"  returned 
Riley  mischievously,  "in  about  the  same  unexpected 
way  that  Peggotty  was  seized  with  fits  of  mental  wan 
dering.  I  am  not  permitted  to  pick  out  and  choose  my 
people.  They  come  and  they  go,  and  they  don't  come 
and  they  don't  go,  just  as  they  like." 

And  there  was  the  same  mystery  about  a  letter.  It 
was  a  dead  mute  sheet  of  white  paper,  and  yet  alive 
and  quivering  with  human  qualities  and  emotions. 
"We  get  a  letter  from  a  friend,"  Riley  once  wrote, 
"with  page  after  page  of  limpid-flowing  humor  and 
discriminating  observations,  and  we  await  his  coming 
on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation.  Nothing,  we  think,  can 
be  more  deliciously  stimulating  than  our  meeting.  The 
path  to  our  door  grows  golden  with  sunshine,  and  we 
imagine  that  the  grass  will  sparkle  with  dewdrops 
when  he  comes ;  but  when  we  meet  face  to  face  we  find 
him  strangely  uncommunicative  and  pathetically  in 
consequential — man  or  woman,  the  disappointment  is 
the  same-— no  warmth  or  impulse  in  anything  he  or 
she  says — all  the  eloquence,  spirit  and  enthusiasm  of 
the  letter  just  dead  ashes  dusted  down  the  winds.  Such 
tragic  awakenings  drive  poets  insane." 

But  never  was  there  a  visit  from  Reed  or  Burdette, 
expected  or  unexpected,  that  was  a  disappointment. 
Theirs  was  "the  miracle  of  unbroken  friendship." 

At  four  o'clock,  one  icy  December  morning  in  1879, 
Riley  and  Burdette  met  at  Spencer,  Indiana.  It  had 
been  a  dark  night.  Riley  had  driven  across  country, 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  47 

through  slush  and  freezing  rain,  from  Bloomington, 
where  he  had  given  a  reading  the  evening  before.  The 
same  evening  the  "Hawkeye  Man"  had  lectured  in 
Spencer  on  "The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Mustache." 
When  he  came  down  from  his  room  in  the  hotel,  so 
he  said  afterward,  he  found  Riley  at  a  table  before  a 
roaring  grate  fire,  writing  poetry.  "It  is  curious/' 
said  Riley,  after  striking  a  glad  hand  with  his  com 
rade,  "how  friends  are  made  and  where  true  fellow 
ship  begins.  You  and  I  have  known  each  other  all  our 
lives  and  have  never  met  before." 

"True,"  returned  Burdette;  "I  suppose  we  boys  did 
make  war  on  weeds,  Colorado  beetles,  and  cutworms 
down  on  the  old  plantation,  but  just  at  this  moment  I 
fail  to  remember  that  we  ever  climbed  into  a  melon 
patch  together.  What  kind  of  an  audience  did  you 
have  in  Bloomington?" 

"I  succeeded  in  holding  the  janitor  spellbound  for 
an  hour  and  a  half,"  answered  Riley.  "I  would  have 
had  two  in  my  audience,  but  the  town  marshal  slipped 
as  he  reached  the  top  step  and  shot  like  a  bullfrog 
down  the  stairway  and  across  the  street.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  Court  House  fence,  he  would  have  slid 
half-way  to  Brown  County.  How  did  you  fare  in 
Spencer?" 

"The  committee  and  the  editor  braved  the  storm 
rather  than  have  the  hall  closed  on  me,"  said  Burdette. 
"'Ladies  and  Gentlemen/  I  began,  after  introducing 
myself  to  the  audience,  'Adam  raised  Cain,  but  he  did 
not  raise  a  mustache.'  Just  then  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  me  to  look  out  over  the  sea  of  empty  benches.  Be 
hold  !  there  was  not  a  lady  in  the  hall." 

The  two  new-old  friends  came  to  Indianapolis  on  a 


48  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

peep-o'-day  train,  "Riley  to  go  on  to  speak  his  piece  at 
Winchester,  Indiana,"  said  Burdette,  "and  I  to  go  on 
to  'holler*  at  Xenia,  Ohio."  Truly  it  was  for  both  the 
day  of  "small  minorities"  in^  Indiana.  Twenty  years 
went  by  before  Burdette's  fame  and  friends  filled  the 
largest  auditorium  in  the  Hoosier  capital,  when,  in 
Riley's  fervent  language,  "the  glory  of  his  victory 
danced  and  shimmered  over  the  city  like  heat  above  a 
kitchen  stove." 

For  a  decade  Burdette  made  it  a  point  to  come  to 
Indianapolis  to  see  Riley  once  a  year.  When  in  the 
city  they  were  constantly  together ;  neither  knew  what 
fatigue  meant,  nor  when  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed  or  to 
get  up.  It  was  a  glorious  round  of  sparkling  pleasure. 
Burdette  regarded  Riley  as  the  most  effervescent 
fellow  he  ever  saw.  He  was  always  asking  the  poet 
questions  to  keep  him  conversationally  stirred  up. 
Sometimes  they  would  meet  Myron  Reed  at  the 
Indianapolis  Journal  office — and  then  "the  streams 
would  overflow  their  banks."  "What  a  set  of  lovers 
we  three  are,"  remarked  Riley  once  to  Burdette. 
"Reed  brags  on  you,  and  I  brag  on  you,  and  we  both 
brag  on  you ;  then  he  brags  on  me,  and  I  brag  on  him, 
and  we  both  brag  on  each  other — till  finally  I  just  let 
all  holds  go  and  brag  on  myself." 

Since  1874  Burdette  had  been- editor  of  the  Burling 
ton  Hawkeye,  and  it  was  in  that  capacity  that  Riley 
had  learned  to  love  him.  Before  their  meeting  at 
Spencer,  the  editor,  without  knowing  it,  had  inspired 
"The  Funny  Little  Fellow,"  the  first  poem  Riley  sent 
to  a  standard  magazine.  The  poem's  early  date, 
December,  1876,  seems  to  make  good  Riley's  claim 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  49 

that  the  two  men  were  friends  before  they  met.    In 
January,  1880,  Riley  wrote  as  follows: 

Dear  Man: 

Do  not  want  to  clog  your  time  but  I  must  hold  you 
with  my  glittering  pen  long  enough  to  thank  you  for 
your  kindly  mention  of  me  in  your  Spencer  letter.  It 
was  a  good  thing  to  say  and  a  mighty  good  way  you 
said  it.  But  years  ago  I  said  a  good  thing  about  you. 
You  never  knew  it  perhaps,  for  it  was  when  the  soul 
of  me  had  been  out  "high-lonespming,"  and  had  run 
up  against  your  own  out  there  in  Burlington.  What 
I  said  started  out  like  this : 

'Twas  a  Funny  Little  Fellow 

Of  the  very  purest  type, 
For  he  had  a  heart  as  mellow 

As  an  apple  over-ripe, 
And  the  brightest  little  twinkle 

When  a  funny  thing  occurred, 
And  the  lightest  little  tinkle 

Of  a  laugh  you  ever  heard. 

You  laughed  away  the  sorrow  and  the  gloom.  I 
had  mothers  in  the  poem  loving  you  and  babies  crow 
ing  for  you,  and  ended  what  I  wrote  (just  as  it  will 
some  glorious  time,  I  pray)  like  this: 

And  I  think  the  Angels  knew  him, 

And  had  gathered  to  await 
His  coming,  and  run  to  him 

Through  the  widely  opened  Gate, 
With  their  faces  gleaming  sunny 

For  his  laughter-loving  sake, 
And  thinking,  "What  a  funny 

Little  Angel  he  will  make!" 

Yours  always,  with  all  hale  affection, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 


50  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

In  Burdette,  Riley  found  a  friend  who  never  lost  his 
youth.  "I  would  not  give  a  peppercorn  for  a  man  who 
suppresses  his  enthusiasm,"  said  Burdette  on  one  of 
his  return  trips  to  Indianapolis.  "From  the  standpoint 
of  enthusiasm,  what  was  the  chief  event  of  our  Cen 
tennial  Year?  It  was  not  a  Liberty  handkerchief  or 
the  Philadelphia  Exposition.  It  was  that  bedlam  scene 
In  our  National  Capitol,  when  Elaine,  speaking  on  a 
question  of  personal  privilege,  vindicated  himself  on 
the  floor  of  the  House,  when  representatives  wore 
themselves  out  with  cheering,  when  the  galleries  be 
came  turbulent  and  the  police  helpless  as  babes  in  a 
flood.  There  were  actors  in  that  legislative  body. 
Blaine  was  an  actor. 

"I  believe  in  enthusiasm,"  Burdette  continued;  "I 
was  in  Michigan  yesterday.  I  tried  to  make  eyes  take 
fire,  and  hearts  beat  a  little  faster  up  there  at  Ross- 
ville.  I  have  traveled  two  hundred  miles  out  of  my 
way  to  have  some  fun.  I  want  to  break  every  parlia 
mentary  rule  in  Cushing's  Manual.  The  world's  a 
stage — all  men  are  players.  Blaine  gave  his  show 
without  call-boys  or  scene-shifters.  So  can  we.  Let 
us  play." 

And  those  play-fellows  played.  Writing  a  friend 
from  Indianapolis  about  a  few  of  the  rollicking  fea 
tures  of  their  play,  Riley  said :  "Burdette  stopped  off 
here  to  see  me,  from  eight  in  the  evening  until  four  in 
the  morning — and  what  fun!  I  could  never  tell  you 
half  of  it.  The  little  man  went  mad — stark,  staring 
mad — and  so  did  I,  in  this  old  faded  room  of  mine. 
We  played  circus ;  he  was  the  master  of  the  arena  and 
rode  chairs  around  the  room  and  did  contortion  acts 
and  feats  of  strength,  and  so  forth.  Then  he  insisted 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  51 

upon  being  an  elephant  and  made  me  his  keeper  and 
exhibitor;  and  I  steered  him  into  the  ring  despite  his 
rumblings  or  expostulations,  and  reared  him  upon  his 
fore  legs  firmly,  and  then  planted  him  on  his  hind 
legs  and  spun  him  round  and  round  one  way  and  back 
the  other.  Then  he  whistled  and  'went  lame*  in  any 
leg  at  will;  and  then  his  intrepid  keeper  lay  supinely 
down  while  the  colossal  monster  walked  over  him. 
There  were  two  local  actors  with  us.  You  would  have 
died,  as  they  did,  to  see  how  ludicrously  perfect  was 
every  motion,  and  the  incredible  awkwardness  and 
care  of  the  elephant  as  he  slowly  stepped  down  each 
foot,  one  at  a  time,  in  this  most  remarkable  per 
formance." 

"Happy  days  they  were,"  wrote  Burdette  in  memory 
of  them.  "How  they  bubbled  over  with  laughter.  How 
many  times  I  have  turned  out  of  my  way,  just  to  have 
a  day  and  a  night  with  Riley.  I  met  him  at  the  door 
of  the  Indianapolis  Journal  office  one  night.  'Where 
are  you  going?'  he  demanded.  'Nowhere/  I  said. 
'Anywhere.  I've  just  come  down  from  LaPorte  to  put 
in  one  camp-fire  with  you/  He  said  he  had  an  assign 
ment  to  report  a  'wind  fight/  but  he  would  sublet  it, 
which  he  did.  (The  'wind  fight*  was  an  oratorical 
contest.)  And  we  prowled  about  Indianapolis,  and 
climbed  up  into  newspaper  offices,  and  invaded  the 
rooms  of  fellows  whom  we  knew,  or  loitered  here  and 
there  by  ourselves,  under  no  pretext  of  hunting 
material,  or  making  'character  studies/  or  of  doing 
anything  else  useful — merely  filling  the  night  with  our 
talk,  and  the  delight  of  being  with  each  other." 

Once  Burdette  was  one  of  a  group  in  a  back  corner 
of  the  Journal  office,  when  Riley  recited  "The  Object 


52  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Lesson."  "That  audience,"  said  Burdette,  "beat  any 
public  one  that  ever  drew  a  watch  on  me  or  coaxed  me 
into  silence  by  their  slumbers.  There  were  brilliant 
men  in  it,  among  them  a  future  president  of  the  United 
States."  Burdette  was  so  certain  after  that  that  Riley 
could  magnetize  a  public  audience  that  he  went  home 
and  wrote  the  following,  which  he  sent  abroad  to 
lecture  bureaus  and  committees,  and  had  printed  in 
many  newspapers: 

Office  of  "The  Hawkeye,"  Burlington,  Iowa. 
It  has  been  my  pleasure  to  listen  to  Mr.  J.  W.  Riley, 
and  I  never  heard  him  say  a  tiresome  word  or  utter  a 
stupid  sentence.  I  would  walk  through  the  mud  or 
ride  through  the  rain  to  hear  him  again.  I  would  get 
out  of  bed  to  listen  to  him.  If  I  have  a  friend  on  a 
lecture  committee  in  the  United  States,  I  want  to 
whisper  in  his  ear  that  one  of  the  best  hits  he  can 
make  will  be  to  surprise  his  audience  with  J.  W.  Riley 
and  his  "Object  Lesson."  Riley  is  good  clean  through. 
His  humor  is  gentle;  it  is  not  caustic.  It  is  pure  and 
manly,  and  the  people  that  will  once  listen  to  him  will 
want  him  back  again  the  same  season. 

R.  J.  BURDETTE. 

Riley  always  recalled  this  generous  act  of  his  friend 
with  thanksgiving.  "I  owe  a  debt  to  Burdette,"  he 
said,  "which  I  can  never  repay.  He  was  my  first 
sponsor  in  the  lecture  field.  He  took  me  up  and  put 
me  before  the  public  and  the  lyceum  bureaus.  It  was 
through  him  that  I  won  hearty  rounds  of  applause 
when  I  appeared  in  lecture  courses  for  the  first  time." 

Robert  Jones  Burdette!  Always  the  night  was 
jeweled  with  light  when  Riley  could  think  of  this  man. 

There    were    chums,    comrades,    associates,    well- 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  53 

wishers,  and  play-fellows  in  the  Riley  gallery  of  friend 
ship,  but  the  Aristides  was  Myron  Winslow  Reed,  who 
at  that  time  occupied  the  pulpit  of  the  First  Presby 
terian  Church  at  Indianapolis.  A  man  of  eccentricities, 
but  a  big  man,  with  a  great  heart  and  a  great  brain. 
He  hated  cant,  and  all  hypocrisies,  was  a  religious 
liberal,  a  fighter  and  something  of  a  rebel.  He  read 
every  good  thing  he  could  get  his  hands  on,  preached 
brilliantly,  talked  little  and  seldom  was  known  to  make 
a  parish  call. 

Their  first  meeting  was  at  the  Memorial  Day  exer 
cises,  Crown  Hill  Cemetery,  Indianapolis,  1878 — a 
gathering  of  three  thousand  people,  where  Reed  offered 
prayer  and  Riley  read  "The  Silent  Victors."  "Had 
that  prayer  been  reported,"  said  General  John  Coburn, 
who  was  the  orator  of  the  day,  "it  would  have  been 
immortal  as  was  the  poem."  Riley  was  certain  about 
the  immortality  in  the  prayer,  but  uncertain  about  it 
in  the  poem.  "Reed's  prayer,"  said  he,  "was  the  prayer 
of  experience.  He  was  a  graduate  of  the  Civil  War. 
He  had  wept  over  dying  men.  He  had  seen, 

'On  battlefields,  the  scarlet  dew 
That  drips  from  patriot  veins/ ' 

"We  met  at  Crown  Hill,"  said  Reed,  "but  I  had 
known  Riley  before.  I  live  a  great  deal  with  friends 
I  have  never  seen.  You  can  love  a  woman — you  can 
love  a  man — whom  you  have  never  met,  to  whom  you 
have  not  written  a  letter,  or  sent  a  telegram.  I  did 
not  have  to  meet  Riley  to  know  him.  Did  I  not  know 
that  the  harp  he  plays  upon  is  the  sweetest  one  in  the 
world  ?  Had  I  not  mooned  over  his  'August/  and  seen 
the  gleaming  face  of  Day  sink  into  the  slumbering 


54  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

arms  of  Night?  Had  I  not  beheld  the  reflex  of  a  man 
of  genius  in  his  Tame'?  Had  I  not  heard  the  good 
expressed  above  the  wrong  in  'John  Walsh'?  Had  I 
not  recoiled  from  the  dregs  of  a  ruined  reputation  in 
his  'Dead  Selves'?  Did  I  not  know  that  we  are  not 
always  glad  when  we  smile?  Why  should  I  look  at  the 
poet's  features?  The  music  in  his  heart  harmonized 
with  that  in  my  own." 

An  odd  feature  of  their  friendship  was  the  absence 
of  letters.  Riley  explained  that  they  used  the  "tele 
pathic  method."  The  Denver  papers  containing  Reed's 
weekly  sermons,  and  postal  cards,  were  sufficient,  after 
the  preacher  moved  to  Colorado — tokens  of  love 
eternal:  "As  always  your  vast  debtor  and  grateful, 
faithful  and  enduring  for  all  ages  and  for  all  worlds, 
James  Whitcomb  Riley." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Riley,  "that  I  have  lured  Reed 
through  the  side  door  of  the  Indianapolis  Journal 
office  a  hundred  times,  saying  to  myself  when  we  were 
seated  alone,  'Now  he  will  tell  me  his  life-story.'  He 
never  did."  Combining  fragments  of  his  history,  then 
and  after,  Riley  came  to  know  that  Reed  had  gone 
hungry  and  without  a  bed.  Sitting  on  a  bench  in  New 
York's  Madison  Square,  he  had  eaten  his  last  lunch 
and  thrown  the  crumbs  to  sparrows.  Moneyless  and 
weary,  he  had  gone  aboard  a  fishing  smack  and  sailed 
for  Newfoundland.  "Nothing  more  dreary  than  clean 
ing  cod  and  halibut  by  day  and  blowing  a  fog  horn  by 
night."  Returning,  he  had  mowed  marsh  grass  on 
the  Hudson,  distributed  campaign  documents  for 
Horace  Greeley,  taught  school  in  the  Catskills,  and 
gone  west  to  "the  precarious  existence  of  a  country 
editor  in  Wisconsin."  He  had  been  a  preacher  in 


THE  FORTUNE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  55 

Milwaukee,  New  Orleans,  Indianapolis  and  Denver. 
He  had  felt  the  sharp  edge  of  misfortune,  and  the  blows 
of  circumstance  had  strengthened  and  tempered  him. 
"He  did  not  blow  a  whistle/'  said  Riley,  "to  tell  you 
he  was  going  to  stop.  He  quit.  Once  in  our  city  he 
stood  before  a  great  audience,  tall,  grim,  commanding, 
and  said:  'It  is  enough  to  say  that  Wendell  Phillips 
is  the  speaker  and  Charles  Sumner  the  subject.'  When 
he  made  a  speech  his  thoughts  went  straight  home 
like  carrier  pigeons.  He  was  no  more  an  orator  in  one 
sense  than  is  a  man  who  reads  the  newspaper  to  his 
family.  In  another — the  Emersonian  sense — there  was 
no  better  orator  in  the  West.  And  there  was  no  better 
friend — old,  young ;  high,  humble ;  rich,  poor ;  educated, 
ignorant;  wise,  foolish — all  without  distinction  came 
within  the  folds  of  his  friendship." 

Such  in  brief  is  the  man  who  discovered  the  Hoosier 
Poet,  "that  is,"  said  Reed,  "I  discovered  him  as  Colum 
bus  discovered  America — a  great  many  people  had 
discovered  him  before  I  did." 

Riley  always  and  fondly  acknowledged  his  debt  and 
affirmed  on  various  occasions  that  Reed  turned  him 
squarely  around  and  made  him  face  the  right  way. 
To  Reed's  influence  and  inspiration  we  to-day  are  be 
holden  for  such  poems  as  "The  Prayer  Perfect,"  "The 
Song  I  Never  Sing,"  "To  Robert  Burns,"  "Let  Some 
thing  Good  Be  Said,"  and  the  tender  lines,  "Reach 
Your  Hand  to  Me"— 

"Groping  somewhere  in  the  night, 
Just  a  touch,  however  light, 
Will  make  all  the  darkness  bright. 
Sometime  there  will  come  an  end — 
Reach  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend." 


CHAPTER  IV 
WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL 

EARLY  in  September,  1876,  Riley's  friend  and 
schoolmate,  Hamilton  J.  Dunbar,  died  in  "the 
gleaming  dawn  of  name  and  fame,"  as  the  poet 
put  it.  -  Dunbar  was  a  brilliant  young  attorney,  a  man 
of  really  great  influence  and  an  orator  who  had 
attracted  the  favorable  consideration  of  such  famous 
statesmen  as  Richard  W.  Thompson  and  Daniel  W. 
Voorhees. 

Among  the  many  tributes  paid  to  young  Dunbar's 
memory  was  .Riley's  poem,  "Dead  in  Sight  of  Fame," 
which  he  read  at  the  meeting  of  the  Greenfield  bar. 
The  poem  attracted  the  attention  of  visiting  attorneys, 
among  them  Judge  E.  B.  Martindale,  proprietor  of  the 
Indianapolis  Journal. 

"My  meeting  the  Judge  on  the  memorial  occasion," 
said  Riley,  "was  another  day  of  fortunate  beginnings." 
And  it  was,  for  in  the  following  February  the  Journal 
printed  "The  Remarkable  Man,"  a  sketch,  with  the 
poem,  "In  the  Dark."  "  The  Remarkable  Man/  "  said 
the  Journal,  editorially,  "is  a  rather  remarkable  com 
position."  This  appreciative  notice  brimmed  Riley 
with  delight.  "I  was  as  tickled  over  it,"  he  said,  "as 
a  boy  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  when  he  hears  the  bang 
of  the  first  gun." 

A  week  or  so  later  Judge  Martindale  sent  by  a  friend 
an  invitation  for  Riley  to  call  at  the  office.  Not  receiv- 

56 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      57 

ing  the  call  as  soon  as  he  expected,  he  wrote  the  poet 
as  follows: 

4  THE  JOURNAL 

Indianapolis,  February  27,  1877. 
Jas.  W.  Riley, 
Greenfield,  Ind. 
My  dear  Sir: 

I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  article  and  poem  sent 
the  Journal  .  I  am  sure  you  have  a  future  and  will 
help  with  the  Journal  to  make  it  whatever  your  appli 
cation  and  industry  deserves.  I  hope  you  will  call  on 
me  when  you  are  in  the  city.  I  may  be  able  to  make 
some  suggestions  and  afford  you  encouragement.  I 
like  to  help  young  men  who  help  themselves. 

Truly  yours, 

E.  B.  MARTINDALE. 

The  letter  contained  a  check  for  ten  dollars,  which 
the  poet's  admiring  friends  thought  trivial  for  a  con 
tribution  that  was  "making  the  Journal  popular,"  but 
Riley  held  a  different  opinion: 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  February  28,  1877. 
E.  B.  Martindale— Editor: 

The  good  letter  you  gave  me  yesterday  is  like  the 
warm  grasp  of  a  friend.  I  can  not  tell  you  what  a 
deep  sense  of  pleasure  I  experience  at  the  honesty  of 
every  utterance,  nor  can  I  express  the  great  strength 
of  my  gratitude. 

Since  "each  word  of  kindness,  come  whence  it  may, 
is  welcome  to  the  poor,"  I  count  myself  most  highly 
honored  by  the  interest  you  manifest. 

I  thank  you  for  the  invitation  you  extend  me,  and 
will  assuredly  call  upon  you  when  in  your  city. 
Very  gratefully  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 


58  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Riley  was  flattered  by  the  praise  of  his  prose  that 
came  from  many  quarters,  but  what  he  wanted  most 
of  all  was  that  the  Journal  should  become  the  medium 
for  the  circulation  of  his  poems.  It  was  the  first  daily 
to  show  a  cordial  interest  in  his  future.  It  would 
carry  his  name  to  remote  corners  of  the  state.  So  he 
chose  a  poem  from  his  slender  stock  and  sent  it  to  the 
Indianapolis  paper.  It  was  promptly  accepted  and 
printed.  That  poem,  illustrated  and  made  into  a  book 
by  Riley's  publishers,  has  sold  in  quantities  that  chal 
lenge  the  imagination,  earning  a  fortune  in  royalties 
and  fixing  the  poet's  name  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of 
countless  readers.  It  was  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of 
Mine." 

Indianapolis,  March  9,  1877. 
James  W.  Riley,  Esq. 
My  dear  Sir: 

I  have  just  read  the  beautiful  poem  you  sent  the 
Journal  to-day  and  take  this  opportunity  to  compli 
ment  you  upon  it.  I  must  say  I  think  it  is  equal  to 
anything  I  have  read  for  years.  I  will  take  in  the 
future  any  prose  or  poetry  you  may  write  and  will 
compensate  you  for  what  you  furnish.  Have  also 
directed  the  Daily  and  Weekly  sent  you. 
Truly  your  friend, 

E.  B.  MARTINDALE. 

Not  since  his  "hurricane  of  delight"  over  the  Long 
fellow1  letter  had  Riley  been  in  such  a  flutter  as  he  was 
over  this  cordial  word  from  the  Journal.  He  "felt," 
to  use  his  own  words,  "that  ultimately  he  would  be 
employed  on  the  Journal''  but  then,  in  1877,  he  "was 
not  big  enough  for  so  big  an  opportunity."  For  the 
present  it  was  sweet  to  know  others  loved  his  "Old 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      59 

Sweetheart" — sweet  to  see  the  curtain  lifted,  sweet  to 
anticipate  success,  and  he  so  expressed  himself  in  his 
reply  to  the  Judge's  letter. 

The  friendly  relation  thus  established,  although  he 
was  not  regularly  employed  on  the  paper  until  two 
years  later,  covered  a  period  of  twenty  years.  He  was 
soon  known  as  the  "Journal's  Poet"  and  justly  so,  for 
at  least  half  of  all  his  printed  productions  appeared  in 
its  columns,  possibly  more  than  half  of  all  the  poet 
wrote  in  his  most  prolific  years — from  January,  1877, 
to  the  publication  of  his  Old-Fashioned  Roses,  1888. 
He  wrote  anonymously  or  over  a  pen  name  while  win 
ning  distinction  on  the  weekly  papers.  When  writing 
for  the  Journal  he  signed  his  own  name,  with  few  ex 
ceptions,  at  first  J.  W.  Riley,  then  James  W.  Riley,  and 
after  April,  1881,  James  Whitcomb  Riley— "my  full 
name  for  two  reasons,"  he  said;  "first,  because  there 
were  other  James  Rileys  in  Indianapolis  and  I  kept 
getting  letters  from  their  girls;  and  second,  to  avoid 
confusion  with  that  host  of  Rileys,  named  in  good  old- 
fashioned  manner  after  the  celebrated  John  Wesley." 

After  the  success  of  "The  Remarkable  Man,"  it 
seemed  assured  that  Riley's  fortune  lay  with  the 
Journal.  In  April,  1877,  however,  as  seen  in  The 
youth  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  the  poet  cast  his  lot 
with  the  Anderson  Democrat,  and  doubtless  would 
have  flourished  there  longer  had  not  the  Poe-Poem 
hoax  overwhelmed  him  with  chagrin  and  sent  him  to 
hide  his  diminished  head  in  rural  obscurity. 

Speaking  of  him  at  this  time,  his  chum,  George  Carr, 
said :  "Riley  did  not  have  an  extra  coat  to  his  name, 
but  he  did  have  genius.  He  was  a  small  man  with  a 
most  uncommon  large  head,  and  what  he  had  inside 


60  JAMES  WHITCOMB  KILEY 

that  head  nobody,  not  even  he  himself,  could  tell.  He 
was  not  a  scholar,  but  he  knew  a  great  deal  that 
scholars  know,  and  a  great  deal  that  they  do  not  know. 
It  would  have  been  a  stiff  job  had  we  Fortville  fellows 
attempted  to  take  stock  of  what  he  knew.  But,  my 
dear  sir,  he  took  stock  of  things  around  him,  don't 
forget  that.  The  notes  he  made  for  poems  and  stories 
would  fill  a  nail  keg.  His  room  was  a  confusion  of 
notes.  There  were  notes  under  his  lamp,  notes  under 
his  pillow,  notes  in  his  shoes,  notes  in  his  hat,  notes 
pinned  to  the  wall,  and,  unbelievable  as  it  seems,  there 
were  notes  crumpled  away  in  the  folds  of  his 
umbrella." 

That  the  Journal  had  not  lost  its  hold  on  Riley's 
affections  is  shown  in  a  letter  to  the  editor,  dated  Sep 
tember,  1877.  The  "excitement  of  doing  nothing"  had 
worn  him  out,  and  he  was  juggling  a  few  ideas  together 
in  the  hope  of  producing  something  that  would  interest 
Journal  readers.  The  juggling,  as  he  called  it,  resulted 
in  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  Riley's  longer  dialect 
poems — "Squire  Hawkins's  Story."  On  reflection,  how 
ever,  Riley  feared  the  Journal  would  reject  the  story, 
and  rather  than  suffer  that  misfortune,  he  laid  the 
poem  aside  and  later  sent  it  to  the  Indianapolis  Herald. 
There  were  grounds  for  suspecting  that  the  Journal 
did  not  care  for  the  humorous  in  dialect,  as  shown  in 
the  following: 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  January  11,  1878. 
Mr.  E.  B.  Martindale, 
Dear  Sir: 

I  write  to  enclose  a  poem  for  the  Journal,  and  to 
ask  in  what  particular — if  any — the  humorous  items 
sent  you  Monday  are  not  suitable  for  publication.  I 


JUDGE  E.  B.  MABTINDALE,  PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  INDIANAPOLIS 
JOURNAL — 1875 


JOHN  C.  NEW,  PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL,  IN  THE 

'EIGHTIES 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      61 

am  more  than  eager  to  please  you,  and  to  be  of  service ; 
and  wherein  I  fail  may  be  due  only  to  my  not  compre 
hending  fully  the  exact  character  of  the  work  you 
asked  me  to  do. 

It  may  be  an  erroneous  idea — certainly  not  an  ego 
tistical  one  to  feel  the  assurance  I  do  of  pleasing  the 
public  with  quaint  paragraphs — at  any  rate  I  earnestly 
desire  that  the  test  be  made,  and  if  I  fail,  I  will  meet 
the  disappointment  like  a  man;  and  if  I  win,  my 
pleasure  shall  be  yours. 

Will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  write  me  a  line  or  two 
when  leisure  affords,  and  tell  me  frankly  where  my 
failings  are.  Trusting  you  will  favor  me  with  this 
request,  I  am, 

Ever  gratefully  yours, 

J.  W.  RlLEY. 

Through  1878  and  '79,  Riley  contributed  to  the 
Journal  without  marked  interruption.  "Send  me  your 
best  effusions  for  the  Sunday  Journal"  wrote  Judge 
Martindale,  in  October,  1878.  When  the  Judge  re 
ceived  the  Christmas  story  for  the  year,  "The  Boss 
Girl,"  (later  entitled  "Jamesy"),  his  demands  became 
imperative.  "Riley  belongs  to  the  Journal"  said  the 
Judge  to  Myron  Reed.  "He  will  come  high ;  neverthe 
less  we  must  have  him." 

Still  the  poet  continued  to  "scatter."  He  was  having 
a  gay  time  with  the  weeklies.  He  wanted  to  be  an  out- 
and-out  man  of  the  world,  wanted  to  travel,  by  which 
he  meant  walk  and  talk  with  his  fellow  Hoosiers  of 
town  and  country.  To  be  denied  this  would  be  a  mis 
fortune.  "If  I  could  be  a  tolerated  factor  in  a  news 
paper  office,"  he  remarked  to  a  friend,  "the  risk  would 
not  be  so  great;  just  loiter  round  the  office,  run  through 
the  files  for  exercise,  and  write  a  skit  or  two  when 
the  spirit  moved — that  would  be  ideal." 


62  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

At  a  later  period  the  poet  gave  other  reasons  for  his 
delay  in  attaching  himself  exclusively  to  the  Journal 
staff.  "I  had  queer  ideas  of  the  value  and  destiny  of 
poetry  in  those  days,"  he  remarked.  "The  fact  that 
poetry  was  a  commodity  to  be  bought  and  paid  for 
struck  me  as  a  kind  of  mythical  idea.  Particularly  I 
was  not  reconciled  to  the  thought  of  being  paid  for  it 
by  salary.  Then,  too,  I  had  the  rather  whimsical 
notion  that  verse  was  something  to  be  cut  into  strips, 
slices  and  bolts,  and  sold  at  so  much  per  hunk.  When 
I  was  asked  to  write  poetry  to  order,  I  painfully 
realized  the  danger  of  letting  verse  slip  through  my 
fingers  without  receiving  careful  revision.  In  a  word, 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  think  of  writing  stuff 
simply  for  money.  That  idea  I  have  tried  to  hold  to 
rigidly  in  all  my  work." 

Riley  also  had  overtures  from  other  cities,  one  from 
the  Terre  Haute  Courier,  proffering  a  half  interest  in 
the  paper,  but  his  favorable  reply  was  lost,  and  when, 
a  year  later,  the  letter  was  found  in  the  Terre  Haute 
post-office,  the  poet  was  safe  in  the  arms  of  the  Journal, 
at  a  salary  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 

The  decision — reached  in  November,  1879 — was 
largely  due  to  Myron  Reed.  "There  is  a  certain  dis 
advantage,"  wrote  Reed,  "in  living  in  the  town  where 
you  were  born  and  raised — they  will  call  you  by  your 
given  name.  Whatever  you  may  become,  people  will 
grade  you  down  to  where  you  were ;  they  will  remem 
ber  you  as  a  boy.  Their  applause  will  not  be  generous 
or  unanimous.  If  you  have  ever  done  anything 
ridiculous — and  you  have — it  is  remembered.  Come 
West,  young  man,  come  to  Indianapolis.  Leave  your 
mistakes  behind." 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      63 

Riley  held  similar  views,  but  was  slow  to  express 
them.  "It  is  hard  for  old  neighbors  to  praise  a  new 
author,"  he  remarked  a  short  time  after  moving  to  the 
city.  "All  the  while  they  are  thinking  he  can  not  do 
it,  and  their  thinking  so,  though  they  do  not  suspect  it, 
is  a  block  in  the  way  of  his  progress.  It  is  the  way 
of  the  world,  you  know ;  Greenfield  is  no  more  a  sinner 
in  this  regard  than  other  towns." 

Reed  counseled  the  proprietors  of  the  Journal  to 
"let  Riley  write  poems.  What  was  Burns'  real  work?" 
he  asked.  "Why,  he  whistled  while  he  plowed,  and  at 
night  wrote  a  song  on  a  scrap  of  paper  that  suited  the 
whistle.  His  real  business — the  songs  he  wrote — 
lasted." 

Being  established  on  the  Journal,  Riley  began  to 
write  to  his  friends.  "I  have  been  coming  to  anchor 
here,"  he  wrote  one,  November  27,  1879,  "and  have 
been  neglecting  everybody.  Could  not  help  it."  To 
another  he  explained  that  he  had  been  plunging  away 
like  a  race-horse.  "I  am  bothered  about  getting  set 
tled  in  this  infernal  city.  I  am  not  used  to  it,  and 
don't  believe  I  ever  will  be.  Lots  of  features  about  it 
that  are  lovely,  but  the  racket  and  rattle  of  it  all  is 
positively  awful — no  monotony  on  God's  earth  like  it." 

"I  would  rather  be  a  houseless  rover  in  a  sylvan 
wilderness,"  was  his  word  to  a  Journal  employee.  On 
several  occasions  he  sighed  for  his  nomadic  days,  when 
he  "was  not  burdened  with  baggage,  cares,  or  ambi 
tions."  In  contrast  to  his  early  dislike  for  the  city  of 
his  adoption,  was  his  love  of  it  twenty  years  later. 
Homeward  bound  from  a  long,  weary  reading  tour, 
approaching  the  city  in  the  early  morning,  just  as 
familiar  buildings  were  emerging  from  the  shadows, 


64  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  treasured  words  of  his  old  Herald  friend,  George 
Harding,  fell  from  his  lips:  "I  have  returned  to  the 
dear  old  town  to  live  and  die  among  the  people  who 
know  the  best  and  the  worst  of  me — to  spend  the  re 
mainder  of  my  life  with  friends  who  have  been  friends 
to  me  when  I  was  not  a  friend  to  myself."  This  was 
not  the  poet's  remark  on  one  home-coming  only.  Again 
and  again  he  repeated  the  words,  and  almost  always 
added  that  "the  one  sure  way  of  getting  a  correct 
appreciation  of  Indianapolis  is  to  go  away  from  it." 

Thus,  as  Bill  Nye  expressed  it,  Riley  was  employed 
on  the  Journal  Works.  Thus  his  love  began  to  make 
a  shrine  of  "the  good,  old  Journal  office,"  which  in 
years  to  follow  was  "always  like  home"  to  him.  "He 
was  lonesome  at  first,"  said  a  Journal  employee. 
"Standing  on  the  street  corners  after  his  poem  had 
been  contributed  to  the  daily  issue,  he  looked  like  a 
farmer,  who  had  come  to  town  because  it  was  too  wet 
to  plow."  Soon,  however,  he  made  friends  of  the 
reportorial  force  and  began  the  nightly  custom  of 
lunching  at  cheap  restaurants,  Miles',  on  Market 
Street,  being  the  favorite  resort  of  the  "gang." 

"There  was  an  ambition  concealed  about  my  person," 
said  Riley,  "as  I  towered  above  Welsh  rarebit  and 
mince  pie,  and  I  was  quite  hopeful  that  one  day  the 
world  at  large  would  know  of  it.  Along  with  my  ambi 
tion  came  a  notice  that  I  was  delinquent  to  the  tune 
of  twenty  dollars  in  taxes  due  the  State  of  Indiana, 
County  of  Marion.  The  county  treasurer  openly  in 
formed  me  that  the  law  made  it  his  duty  to  levy  on 
and  sell  my  personal  property  unless  said  tax  was 
paid,  and  would  I  please  tuck  my  little  delinquent 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      65 

notice  in  my  pocket,  and  call  and  settle  and  relieve 
him  of  a  disagreeable  duty. 

"There  came  also  with  my  Hudibrastic  ambition," 
Riley  continued,  "a  juicy  request  from  the  leading  mer 
chant  of  Wabash  Town  that  I  return  the  five  dollars 
I  borrowed  while  publishing  his  name  and  business  to 
the  world  on  barns  and  fences.  This — that — and  a 
thousand  other  vexations  did  at  last  awaken  in  my 
blind  perceptive  faculty  the  conviction  that  a  little 
kickshaw  poet  in  a  big  city  is  not  worth  a  tomtit  on 
a  pump  handle.  The  Fates  kept  boring,  and  by  and 
by  it  dawned  on  my  Waterbury  mentality  that  my 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week  in  the  city  was  not  equal  to 
my  two  dollars  a  poem  in  Greenfield." 

Whether  his  wages  were  average  or  small,  the  poet 
seemed  hopelessly  incapable  of  saving  anything  out  of 
them.  Like  a  boy,  he  must  promptly  spend  his  earn 
ings.  An  early  friend  relates  that  soon  after  receiving 
his  first  check  from  the  Journal,  Riley  was  in  the  city 
one  day,  when  his  eye  fell  on  a  red  silk  hat  in  a  Wash 
ington  Street  shop  window.  Price  five  dollars.  Its 
flaming  color  was  more  than  the  poet  could  stand.  He 
must  have  it,  and  at  last  the  dealer  parted  with  it  for 
four  dollars,  the  total  amount  in  Riley's  pocket.  All 
he  had  left  was  a  return-trip  ticket  to  Greenfield. 

A  collection  of  impressions  of  Riley  when  he  came 
to  the  Journal  would  include  such  terms  as — undis 
tinguished-looking — unripe  in  knowledge  and  green  in 
judgment — an  unsuspecting  nature — immature  and  in 
experienced  —  unaffected,  straightforward,  simple. 
Charles  Martindale  of  Indianapolis,  city  editor  of  the 
Journal  at  the  time,  remembers  that  among  writers 


66  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

and  contributors  to  the  paper,  Riley — interesting  to 
the  nth  degree — was,  in  manners  and  dress,  about  the 
most  diverting  and  conspicuous  example  of  agricul 
tural  verdancy  it  had  been  his  good  fortune  to  meet. 

Senator  Harry  S.  New  gives  an  impression  of  the 
poet  as  he  knew  him  in  those  diffident  days,  when 
Riley,  in  his  own  words,  "groaned  under  a  pyramid  of 
bashfulness  and  misery."  The  Senator  was  then  police 
court  reporter  on  the  Journal — no  more  dreaming  of 
a  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate  than  did  Riley  of 
glory  and  renown. 

"My  first  impression  of  the  poet,"  said  the  Senator, 
"was  that  of  a  young  man,  modest  to  the  point  of 
diffidence,  clad  in  a  suit  evidently  bought  in  a  Green 
field  store  with  the  idea  that  it  would  about  meet  the 
demands  of  the  metropolis.  He  was  not  only  modest, 
but  bashful — almost  painfully  so. 

"We  had  desks  in  the  same  room  at  the  old  Indian 
apolis  Journal  office  and  became  not  only  friends,  but 
boon  companions  at  the  very  start.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  natural  result  of  the  fact  that  the  nature  of  my 
work  and  Riley's  predilection  for  late  hours  brought 
us  together  in  the  moments  of  our  leisure,  after  the 
paper  had  gone  to  press.  I  have  seen  him  sit  for  long 
periods  at  his  old  desk,  under  one  of  the  old-style 
lamps  used  in  newspaper  offices  of  that  day,  occupied 
not  in  serious  effort,  but  in  drawing  quaint  pictures 
and  fancy  lettering.  In  fact,  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
produced  a  single  thing  at  that  desk  that  found  its  way 
into  print.  This  he  did  in  his  room,  wherever  that 
happened  to  be  during  frequent  changes,  before  he 
'settled  down'  on  Lockerbie  Street.  He  was  one  of  the 
most  inveterate  jokers  I  ever  knew,  and  many  a  night 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      67 

I  have  sat  with  him  and  George  Harding  or  Romeo 
Johnson  in  Top'  June's  restaurant  from  two  A.  M. 
till  long  after  daylight,  listening  to  Riley's  stories, 
imitations  and  improvisations.  The  introduction  of  an 
outsider  always  stopped  his  hilarity;  his  modesty 
caused  him  to  draw  into  his  shell  in  the  presence  of 
strangers.  It  was  only  with  his  intimates  that  his 
wonderful  versatility  showed  itself. 

"He  was  one  of  the  most  unusual  characters  I  ever 
knew.  There  is  no  one  with  whom  to  compare  him. 
His  personality  was  as  individual  as  his  writing.  No 
man  who  knew  him,  particularly  in  the  early  days, 
could  ever  forget  him." 

Among  the  poet's  Indianapolis  friends  was  Anna 
Nicholas,  who  had  just  been  promoted  to  the  editorial 
rooms  of  the  Journal.  She  knew  Riley  in  his  "come 
dian  days,"  as  he  phrased  it,  when  his  long  fiery  mus 
tache  was  a  distinguishing  feature. 

"Riley  had  other  talents  than  that  of  writing  verse," 
Miss  Nicholas  said.  "He  was  witty,  full  of  dry  humor, 
and  possessed  an  inimitable  gift  of  story-telling.  And 
so  he  was  made  welcome  in  many  and  varying  circles. 
One  of  these  was  what  might  be  called  the  Informal 
Club,  a  group  of  men  whose  habit  was  usually  in  the 
forenoons  to  drop  into  the  private  office  of  the  Jour 
nal's  owner  and  publisher.  Among  the  notable  men 
of  this  group  were  Myron  Reed,  William  P.  Fishback, 
a  brilliant  lawyer,  Benjamin  Harrison,  and  Elijah  W. 
Halford,  afterward  President  Harrison's  private 
secretary." 

Another  Riley  Indianapolis  friend  of  those  days  was 
the  newspaper  correspondent,  Miss  Laura  Ream.  "It 
makes  a  big  part  of  the  sunshine  of  my  daily  life,"  she 


68  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

wrote,  "to  fall  in  with  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  which 
I  am  apt  to  do  any  fine  morning  that  I  make  the 
circuit  of  the  newspaper  offices.  His  abiding-place  is 
the  cosy  ground-floor  office  of  the  Journal,  but  it  is  his 
favorite  habit  to  saunter  up  and  down  the  sunny  side 
of  Washington  Street,  peering  into  shop  windows,  or 
into  the  faces  of  all  he  meets,  with  his  near-sighted 
expression,  as  much  as  to  say,  is  this  any  one  I  should 
know?  The  young  fair-haired  man  would  be  recog 
nized  by  a  stranger  as  an  artist  of  some  kind,  most 
likely  a  musician,  for  the  turn  of  the  head,  slightly 
inclined  to  the  left,  is  that  of  a  violinist,  with  ear  intent 
upon  what  he  hears.  It  would  not  be  a  mistake  wild  of 
the  mark,  for  the  poet  is  keenly  alive  to  all  the  voices 
of  Nature  and  human  nature." 

As  has  been  said,  there  were  as  many  portraits  of 
Riley  as  there  were  observers.  It  is  evident,  for  in 
stance,  that  Senator  New  knew  a  Riley  Judge  Mar- 
tindale  did  not  know,  and  Miss  Nicholas  knew  a  Riley 
Miss  Ream  did  not  know,  and  his  intimates  a  Riley  the 
public  did  not  know.  In  a  sense,  every  man,  par 
ticularly  the  artistic  and  the  temperamental,  lives  sev 
eral  lives  and  presents  various  aspects  at  various  times. 
All  of  which  adds  to  the  difficulties  of  the  biographer's 
task.  "He  may  construct  an  episode,"  writes  Albert 
Bigelow  Paine,  "present  a  picture,  or  reflect  a  mood  by 
which  the  reader  may  know  a  little  of  the  substance 
of  the  past.  At  best  his  labor  will  be  pathetically  in 
complete,  for  whatever  the  detail  of  his  work  and  its 
resemblance  to  life,  these  will  record  mainly  but  an 
outward  expression,  behind  which  was  the  mighty 
sweep  and  tumult  of  unwritten  thought,  the  over- 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      69 

whelming   proportion    of   any   life,   which   no   other 
human  soul  can  ever  really  know." 

In  a  revised  paragraph  of  an  early  unpublished 
story,  Riley  portrays  himself  in  a  picturesque  indi 
vidual,  who  dwells  in  the  primitive  village  of  Paradise 
Point,  and  who  fondly  displays  in  front  of  his  cottage 

"A  poet's  sign  on  a  slender  slat 
Swinging  in  the  wind  like  an  acrobat." 

When  he  came  to  the  Journal,  the  early  vision  still 
possessed  him.  The  last  night  of  the  year  1879,  while 
"snowy  December  was  tapping  on  the  window-pane," 
he  stares  dreamily  at  the  pictures  on  the  office  wall — 
a  map  of  Mexico,  a  colored  lithograph  of  Washington, 
and  a  gray  dusty  bust  of  Gutenberg  on  a  shelf.  He 
leans  back  in  his  chair,  blinks  his  eyes  and  looks 
again — 

"A  file  of  papers  from  a  rack 
Unfolds  a  pair  of  legs,  and  then 

A  pair  of  arms,  and  leaps  and  stands 
In  pleading  posture  at  his  chair. 
With  fluttering  pages,  and  a  pair 
Of  cruel  scissors  in  its  hands." 

At  the  moment  the  old  clock  on  the  shelf,  whose 
habit  is  "to  make  timely  remarks,"  points  its  finger  at 
the  poet  and  "wonders  if  he  sees  the  point" ; 

"And  then  it  goes  off  in  a  fit 

Of  pealing  laughter,  loud  and  long, 
And  all  the  pictures  join  in  it, 
And  cry  aloud,  'A  song !     A  song !'  " 


70  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  frosty  air  seems  to  be  haunted  with  a  mystic 
symphony.  The  poet  hears  the  music  of  harps  and 
violins : 

"And  then  a  voice  of  such  a  tone 
Of  tenderness  and  merriment 
He  does  not  know  it  as  his  own, 
And  welling  strangely  over  all, 
Sweet  words  upon  his  senses  fall." 

After  listening  a  while,  in  his  dream,  to  the  voices 
of  children,  whispers  of  love,  and  peals  of  laughter,  the 
poet  starts  up  abruptly  and  stares  about  him  in  blank 
surprise.  He  is  back  in  the  world  of  editors,  printers 
and  pressmen — but  he  has  answered  the  summons  of 
the  Muse.  Having 

"Sung  the  song — the  echoes  fled 

In  merriment  around  the  room — 
Old  Gutenberg  stood  on  his  head 

And  brushed  his  whiskers  with  a  broom — • 
The  file  of  papers  scrambled  back 

To  its  old  perch  upon  the  rack — 
And  Washington,  upon  the  wall, 

Looked  gravely  at  the  clock  and  said — 
Toll  lightly,  the  Old  Year  is  dead— 

A  happy  New  Year  to  you  all !' ' 

So  it  may  be  said  that  Riley  entered  the  year  1880 
with  the  signet  of  song  on  his  brow,  the  Journal,  in 
the  main,  permitting  him  to  "do  his  own  work  in  his 
own  way."  True,  he  wrote  prose,  particularly  during 
the  two  years  following — such  sketches  as  "Eccentric 
Mr.  Clark,"  "Where  Is  Mary  Alice  Smith?"  "The  Boy 
From  Zeeny,"  and  such  editorials  as  "The  Giant  on 
the  Show-Bills,"  "The  Way  We  Walk,"  "The  Old 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      71 

Fiddler"  and  "Mr.  Trillpipe  on  Puns,"  but  they  were 
not  written  with  the  seriousness  of  purpose  that  he 
wrote  song.  To  say  it  as  the  poet  said  it,  he  "wrote 
prose  with  a  kind  of  feeling  that  he  had  gone  over  to 
the  enemy." 

Throughout  1880  Riley  was  "up  to  his  ears  in  work," 
scarcely  had  time  to  hear  the  venerable  Bronson  Alcott 
talk  before  the  Women's  Club.  Letters  came  from 
friends,  some  to  compliment,  some  to  warn  against 
the  "loss  of  leisure"  and  the  danger  of  "intrepid  haste 
in  composition."  "You  are  like  a  violin  with  all  the 
strings  let  down,"  wrote  Ella  Wheeler;  "the  strings 
must  be  drawn  up  slowly  or  they  will  snap."  "All 
kinds  of  graces  and  good  fortune  attend  you,"  wrote 
B.  S.  Parker;  "the  sacred  Nine  still  fall  upon  your 
consecrated  head." 

In  May,  1880,  the  ownership  of  the  Journal  was 
transferred  to  John  C.  New  and  son.  With  the  transfer 
came  a  change  of  policy.  The  managing  editor  wanted 
to  make  the  paper  measure  up  to  big  newspaper 
standards — "the  world's  history  of  a  day."  Riley  pre 
ferred  to  "see  it  blossom  with  the  quiet  grandeur  of 
simple  things."  The  editor  wanted  humorous  editorials 
and  he  wanted  Riley  to  write  them — and  he  wanted 
them  to  be  ready  at  the  call  for  "copy."  Riley  could 
not  work  under  such  a  strain,  had  to  write  when  he 
felt  like  it,  and  could  not  produce  when  crowded.  "You 
want  me  to  write  poetry  at  odd  times,"  said  he;  "I 
want  poetry  to  be  the  chief  consideration — editorials, 
secondary." 

The  managing  editor  made  strenuous  efforts  to 
curtail  expenses.  To  pay  for  poetry  did  not  pay.  "The 
way  that  editor  tracked  innocent  expenditures  to  their 


72  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

origin  and  lambasted  their  victims  was  atrocious,"  said 
Riley.  "He  knew  everything  that  was  going  on ;  every 
morning  he  knew  which  cockroach  had  sipped  the  most 
paste  the  night  before." 

Riley  did  not  serve  the  Journal  as  a  reporter, 
although  he  mingled  freely  with  the  "boys"  when  night 
came.  "I  had  a  peculiar  position,"  he  said.  "My 
editor-in-chief  was  one  of  the  most  indulgent  men  in 
the  world  and  let  me  do  pretty  much  as  I  pleased.  I 
wrote  when  I  felt  like  it,  and  when  I  did  not,  nothing 
was  said.  At  first  when  called  on  for  a  certain  thing 
by  a  certain  time  I  grew  apprehensive  and  nervous, 
but  I  soon  solved  the  problem.  I  learned  to  keep  a 
stack  of  poems  and  prose  on  hand,  and  when  there  was 
a  big  hole  in  the  paper  and  they  called  for  'copy*  I  gave 
them  all  they  wanted.  Sometimes  it  would  be  a  book 
review,  again  a  so-called  editorial,  and  oftener  some 
odds  and  ends  that  I  had  written  in  spare  moments — 
and  once  a  week  perhaps  an  unsigned  skit  or  a  jingle 
for  the  old  cigar  box"  (a  receptacle  in  the  office  for 
anonymous  contributions) . 

"As  time  passed,"  continued  Riley,  "my  managing 
editor  grew  more  charitable.  He  continued,  however, 
to  look  to  quantity  more  than  quality.  The  reporters 
were  my  friends,  too.  Some  of  them  went  in  and  out 
among  the  farmers ;  they  would  talk  and  listen  to  them 
and  then  report  to  me.  There  was  one  clerk  who 
remembered  to  tell  me  the  quaint  and  curious  things 
that  were  said  when  subscribers  came  to  sign  for  the 
paper*  A  friend  on  the  Indianapolis  News  did  the 
same. 

"An  advantage,  or  disadvantage,  of  the  newspaper 
profession,"  Riley  continued,  "is  that  its  members  are 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      73 

compelled  to  know  the  shams  of  the  world,  the  weak 
ness  of  the  community,  its  vanities  and  mistakes.  All 
of  which  flowed  through  the  Journal  rooms — dull 
speakers  called  to  have  it  said  in  print  that  they  were 
eloquent — women  wanted  to  shine  in  the  society 
column — men  in  the  wrong  wanted  to  be  reported 
right — and  now  and  then  a  crack-brained  philosopher 
came  with  a  story  as  long  as  his  linen  duster — and 
bores  came  asking  two  minutes  of  time  and  taking  two 
hours.  The  world  with  its  excellence  and  follies  flows 
through  the  reportorial  rooms.  Thus,  I  had  a  con 
stant  and  inexhaustible  supply  of  new  expressions 
from  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  new  ideas 
simply  or  extravagantly  told.  Many  of  the  phrases 
picked  up  in  this  way  were  ready  for  use  without 
polishing,  for  the  speech  of  the  people  is  usually  full 
of  rhythm,  if  we  have  the  ear  to  hear  it;  and  it  is 
usually  direct.  Thus,  I  was  brought  into  contact  with 
all  phases  of  life.  My  journalistic  work  gave  me  an 
insight  into  human  nature,  which  I  could  have  acquired 
in  no  other  way.  It  taught  me  also  to  try  to  give  the 
public  what  it  wants." 

The  poet  expressed  his  debt  to  the  newspaper  at  a 
banquet  given  the  "boys"  soon  after  he  came  to  the 
Journal.  "The  weighty  honor  of  saying  a  few  words" 
being  laid  upon  him,  he  referred  to  the  press  as  "a 
vast  jury  that  industriously  and  tirelessly  supplied 
verdicts  on  all  the  great  and  leading  questions  of  the 
age.  It  had  grown  to  its  present  magnificent  propor 
tions  on  our  prolific  American  soil.  Its  eagle  eye  was 
to  see  everything,  ferret  out  crime,  condemn  and  exe 
cute  criminals,  stand  sentinel  to  the  general  good,  stir 
up  the  lethargy  of  the  body  politic,  and  last  and  not 


74  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

least,  preserve  literature,  and  in  particular  promote 
the  general  welfare  by  circulating  songs  that  warm  the 
public  heart." 

It  was  eminently  characteristic  of  the  poet  to  do 
things  by  extremes.  In  July  and  August,  1881,  humor 
predominated  in  his  editorials.  "It  has  been  sug 
gested  by  our  readers,"  he  wrote,  "that  the  Journal 
really  ought  to  have  its  columns  embellished  with 
something  sunny-like,  not  too  much  fun  in  it,  you 
know,  but  just  enough." 

As  the  humorist  of  the  Journal,  Riley  sometimes  dis 
guised  himself  as  Mr.  Trillpipe.  In  one  issue  Mr. 
Trillpipe  paid  his  respects  to  that  elder  daughter  of 
discomfort— Homesickness.  "I  want  to  say  right 
here,"  he  wrote,  "that  of  all  diseases,  afflictions  or 
complaints,  this  thing  of  being  homesick  takes  the 
cookies.  A  man  may  think  when  he  has  an  aggra 
vated  case  of  jaundice,  or  white-swelling,  or  bone- 
erysipelas,  that  he  is  to  be  looked  up  to  as  a  being 
quite  well  fixed  in  the  line  of  trouble  and  unrest,  but 
I  want  to  tell  you,  when  I  want  my  sorrow  blood- 
raw,  you  may  give  me  homesickness — straight  goods, 
you  know — and  I  will  get  more  clean  legitimate  agony 
out  of  that  than  you  can  out  of  either  of  the  other  at 
tractions — or  of  all  combined.  You  see,  there  is  but 
one  way  of  treating  homesickness — and  that  is  to  get 
back  home — but  that  is  a  remedy  you  can  not  get  at 
a  drug  store  at  so  much  per  box !  and  if  you  could,  and 
had  only  enough  money  to  cover  half  the  cost  of  a  full 
box — and  nothing  but  a  full  box  ever  reaches  the  case 
• — why,  it  follows  that  your  condition  remains  critical. 
Homesickness  shows  no  favors.  She  is  just  as  liable 
to  strike  you  as  to  strike  me.  High  or  low,  rich  or 


WITH  THE  INDIANAPOLIS  JOURNAL      75 

poor,  all  come  under  her  jurisdiction,  and  whenever 
she  once  reaches  for  a  citizen  she  gets  there  every 
time !  She  does  not  confine  herself  to  youth,  nor  make 
a  specialty  of  little  children.  She  stalks  abroad  like  a 
census-taker,  and  is  as  conscientious. 

"I  will  never  forget,"  continued  Mr.  Trillpipe,  "the 
last  case  of  homesickness  I  had  and  the  cure  I  took 
for  it.  It  has  not  been  more  than  a  week  ago,  either. 
You  see  my  old  home  is  too  many  laps  from  this  base 
to  make  it  very  often,  and  in  consequence  I  had  not 
been  there  for  five  years  and  better  until  this  last  trip, 
when  I  just  succumbed  to  the  pressure  and  threw  up 
my  hands  and  went.  It  was  glorious  to  rack  'round 
the  old  town  again,  things  looking  about  the  same  as 
they  did  when  I  was  a  boy,  don't  you  know.  Ran 
across  an  old  schoolmate  and  took  supper  with  him  at 
his  happy  little  home.  Then  we  walked  and  talked. 
He  took  me  all  around,  you  understand,  in  the  mellow 
twilight,  as  it  were,  till  the  first  thing  you  know, 
there  stood  the  old  schoolhouse  where  we  first  learned 
to  chew  gum  and  play  truant.  Well,  sir,  you  have  no 
idea  of  my  feelings.  Why,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  throw 
my  arms  around  the  dear  old  building  till  the  cupola 
would  just  pop  out  of  the  top  of  the  roof  like  the  core 
of  a  carbuncle,  don't  you  know — and  I  think  if  ever 
there  was  an  epoch  in  my  life  when  I  could  have 
tackled  poetry  without  the  sting  of  conscience,  that 
was  the  time !"  (The  irony  of  this  is  more  apparent 
when  one  recalls  the  poet's  miseries  over  arithmetic 
in  the  old  building.) 

Although  appearances  seemed  to  contradict  it,  the 
fact  was  that  Riley  did  not  detach  himself  from  the 
home  of  his  youth.  For  several  years  scarcely  a  fort- 


76  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

night  passed  without  his  return  to  Greenfield.  He 
would  "toil  prodigiously"  for  a  while  and  then  sud 
denly  answer  the  call  of  a  willow-whistle.  He  would 
leave  a  note  on  the  editor's  desk:  "Here  is  a  little 
lullaby  song  you  may  use  for  Sunday  issue,  if  it  pleases 
you,  and  a  nonsense  jingle,  perhaps  not  worthy  to  use 
at  all,  but  if  not,  preserve  it,  and  I  will  get  it  when  I 
return.  Going  down  home  for  a  day  or  two  to  smoke 
my  segyar." 

"He  would  lose  interest  in  the  struggle,"  said  the 
Journal  editor,  "-and  would  stamp  up  and  down  our 
reportorial  rooms  moaning  for  the  sight  of  sunflowers 
in  the  lane  or  a  martin  box  in  the  garden,  talking  about 
the  showers  of  sunshine  on  the  fields  and  the  restful 
lullabies  of  the  rain."  "We  have  been  waiting  so  long," 
he  wrote,  in  such  a  mood. 

"And  0  so  very  homesick  we  have  grown, 
The  laughter  of  the  world  is  like  a  moan 
In  our  tired  hearing,  and  its  song  as  vain, — 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again!" 

Sometimes  his  stay  would  be  overlong  and  the 
managing  editor  would  have  to  hurry  a  post-card  to 
Greenfield — "Proof  is  waiting;  come  on  first  train." 
Usually,  however,  the  smiles  of  old  friends  would  soon 
restore  the  poet's  "lost  youth" — and  then  "the  desire 
to  see  his  thoughts  in  cold  type"  promptly  returned 
him  to  the  Journal;  back,  he  said,  "to  ask  the  boys 
how  to  spell  a  word";  back  to  the  friends  who  would 
coddle  his  "ambition  for  a  place  in  the  world  of  let 
ters." 


CHAPTER  V 

SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM 

ILEY  received  much  wise  counsel,  not  a  little 
helpful  criticism  and  a  great  deal  of  praise, 
out  of  which  developed  the  resolve  to  .cultivate 
his  gift. 

He  wisely  did  not  put  himself  under  an  elocutionist, 
but  he  did  conscientiously  strive  to  perfect  his  style 
of  delivery.  The  best  school  he  thought  was  an  audi 
ence  of  men  and  women,  and  so  he  eagerly  joined  in 
amateur  entertainments,  aiding  in  commencement  ex 
ercises,  church  festivals  and  concerts.  At  Indianapolis 
he  left  off  writing  a  poem,  hurried  to  the  First  Bap 
tist  Church,  and  by  request  recited  "The  Tree  Toad" 
and  "The  .Object  Lesson,"  at  the  end  of  a  long  musical 
program. 

Sometimes  he  would  slip  into  a  convention  to  dis 
cover  if  he  could  the  secret  of  some  orator's  power, 
often  relate  anecdotes  and  stories  to  his  friends,  and 
always  when  the  chance  offered,  study  the  accent  and 
gestures  of  children.  His  friend,  D.  S.  Alexander, 
then  correspondent  of  the  Chicago  Tribune,  wrote  most 
happily  of  things  the  poet  did  and  why  he  did  them. 
It  was  a  day  in  August,  1879 — 103  degrees  in  the 
shade,  but  not  too  hot  for  the  poet  "to  perfect  his 
style  of  delivery."  He  was  in  the  woods  on  White 
River,  eight  or  ten  miles  above  the  city.  After  high 
noon  and  boiled  coffee,  Riley  rose  before  his  little  audi- 

77 


78  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ence — two  newspaper  correspondents  and  an  inquisi 
tive  boy — and  told  "The  Bear  Story,"  and  then  gave 
"a  little  dissertation  on  the  peanut,"  which  made  his 
audience  exceedingly  noisy. 

"What  will  you  do  with  this  marvelous  gift?"  asked 
Alexander,  as  soon  as  he  could  control  his  laughter. 

"Cultivate  it,  I  suppose,"  answered  Riley.  "Wish  I 
could  earn  my  living  by  it." 

"Riley's  power  of  imitation,"  wrote  the  correspond 
ent,  "is  certainly  wonderful.  Sothern  in  the  Crushed 
Tragedian  is  not  more  happy  than  Riley  in  his  imita 
tion  of  Colonel  Ingersoll,  Schuyler  Colfax,  and  other 
popular  lecturers.  He  never  heard  Ingersoll  but  once, 
and  yet  he  caught  the  salient  points  of  his  style.  The 
tone  of  voice,  the  happy  gesture,  and  the  full  round 
sentences,  flushed  with  the  imagery  of  poetry,  are 
copied  with  an  exactness  that  must  delight  even  the 
famous  orator  himself." 

Riley  took  particular  pride  in  his  imitation  of  In 
gersoll  and  was  keenly  disappointed  when  he  realized 
that  it  was  a  failure. 

"While  it  is  not  my  intention,"  Riley  would  say  in 
introducing  the  imitation,  "to  descant  upon  the  merits 
of  Robert  G.  Ingersoll  as  an  orator,  or  to  express  any 
opinion  as  to  whether  our  peculiar  views  are  in  direct 
unison  or  not,  I  desire  to  preface  the  sketch  I  am  about 
to  offer,  by  the  admission  that  his  oratory,  upon  the 
one  occasion  that  I  listened  to  him  held  me  as  nearly 
spellbound,  for  two  hours  as,  perhaps,  the  tongue  of 
eloquence  will  ever  hold  me.  And  I  will  admit  fur 
ther  that  I  did  not  attend  his  speech  to  listen  in  that 
way — but  rather  for  the  purpose  of  studying  his  ora 
tory,  and  getting,  if  possible,  an  idea  of  the  way  he 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      79 

did  it.  I  venture  the  assertion  that  his  peculiar  power 
will  enable  him  to  take  up  any  subject — no  matter  how 
inviolate  and  incontrovertible  in  its  fixed  relations 
with  the  laws  of  fact,  and  discuss  that  subject  to  its 
seeming  defamation.  As  an  example,  let  us  select  a 
topic,  'Friendship/  for  instance,  and  I  think  it  will 
require  no  unusual  stretch  of  fancy  to  imagine  the 
great  orator  assaulting  it." 

Then  followed  a  volley  in  the  style  of  Ingersoll's 
assaults  on  creeds  and  the  Bible.  "What  has  Friend 
ship  ever  done  for  man?"  Riley  asked.  "What  ship  of 
commerce  has  it  ever  launched  upon  the  sea?  What 
foreign  shore  has  it  ever  set  its  foot  upon  but  to  crush 
it  in  the  dust?" 

Notwithstanding  the  poet's  efforts  to  improve  it,  the 
Ingersoll  imitation  was  a  failure.  There  was  some 
thing  about  it  that  even  the  orthodox  church-member 
did  not  like.  For  similar  reasons,  "blue  ribbon"  soci 
eties  and  baseball  enthusiasts  were  displeased  with  an 
other  imitation,  "Benson  Out-Bensoned,"  although 
Riley  did  his  utmost  to  conciliate  them.  "Before  pro 
ceeding  with  this  number,"  said  Riley  to  his  audience, 
"I  desire  to  call  particular  attention  to  the  fact  that  it 
was  written  and  published  as  a  satire  on  a  game  the 
world  has  gone  mad  over.  Containing  for  its  central 
figure,  a  character  who  is  prominent  in  the  Temper 
ance  field,  I  would  not  have  the  imitation  construed 
into  a  burlesque  upon  a  theme  of  such  moral  impor 
tance;  much  less  reflect  discredit  upon  a  man  whose 
genius  has  ever  challenged  the  highest  admiration.  I 
refer  to  Luther  Benson,  a  man  whose  hopeless  misfor 
tune  can  not  sink  him  beyond  the  reach  of  my  warm 
est  love  and  sympathy." 


80  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

After  "trying"  them  for  three  years  the  imitations 
were  retired.  Throughout  Indiana  in  those  promising 
platform  days,  were  friends  who  longed  for  the  poet's 
success  as  they  would  for  a  personal  triumph.  They 
were  heavy  at  heart  whenever  he  did  things  beneath 
the  higher  levels  of  his  genius,  and  had  a  happy  way 
of  communicating  their  criticisms  to  the  Indianapolis 
Journal  One  day  there  came  a  letter  from  Liberty, 
Indiana.  "Last  evening,"  wrote  the  correspondent, 
"J.  W.  Riley  appeared  before  a  Liberty  audience  for 
the  second  time  within  the  last  fortnight.  His  char 
acterization  is  perfect.  In  the  presence  of  his  genius 
our  illusion  is  complete,  and  in  laughter  and  tears  we 
accompany  him  in  the  rendition  of  his  sketches  and 
poems.  There  is  but  one  criticism  to  be  made  on  his 
entertainments,  and  that  is  the  Benson  and  Ingersoll 
imitations,  which  he  renders  with  such  abandon.  They 
are  each  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  they  are  typical 
of  nothing  worth  preserving,  and  so  far  below  the 
original  freshness  and  purity  of  his  own  unique  pro 
ductions,  that  the  contrast  is  painfully  apparent.  He 
would  do  well  to  eschew  them  forevermore." 

It  was  a  center  shot.  "Forevermore,"  repeated  Riley 
to  a  reporter.  "No  more  mocking-bird  business.  Be 
that  word  our  sign  of  parting."  At  a  later  period 
Riley  remarked  that  he  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the 
Journal  office,  grave,  mute  and  lonely  as  the  bust  of 
Gutenberg — "but  the  imitations  had  to  go." 

The  year  1879  set  at  rest  the  question  of  Riley 's 
ability  as  a  public  entertainer.  Men  slow  to  give 
judgment  were  confident  he  had  qualities  of  genius 
that  would  eminently  distinguish  him  on  the  plat 
form.  Terms  for  his  entertainment  were  raised  from 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      81 

fifteen  dollars  and  expenses  to  twenty-five  dollars.  "I 
am  simply  compelled  to  ask  a  fair  price,"  he  wrote  a 
committee,  "since  it  is  through  this  means  that  I  hope 
to  gain  a  revenue  sufficient  to  forward  my  literary 
studies."  Hand-bills  announced  him  "the  Poet  Laure 
ate  of  Indiana, — a  feast  of  reason  and  a  flow  of  soul," 
and  here  and  there  small  committees  began  to  share 
the  Carlyle  observation  that  a  true  poet,  a  man  in 
whose  heart  resides  some  tone  of  the  eternal  melo 
dies,  is  the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed 
upon  a  generation.  Responsible  citizens,  having 
listened  to  the  poet  with  pleasure,  signed  a  paper  for 
a  return  engagement.  Fifty  business  and  profes 
sional  men  of  Newcastle,  having  braved  "the  rain  and 
slush  of  a  dark  night,"  sent  such  an  invitation  that 
Riley  might  have  the  opportunity  to  appear  again  un 
der  more  favorable  conditions.  * 

In  September  he  prepared  a  new  lecture,  though  he 
did  not  want  it  called  a  lecture,  that  treated  of  poetry 
and  character.  "In  the  broadest  sense,  poetry,  should 
I  attempt  to  define  it,"  said  Riley  in  his  new  talk,  "is 
a  spiritual  essence,  whose  flavor  purifies  and  sweetens 
all  our  being,  and  makes  us  more  and  more  like  true 
men — just,  and  generous,  and  humane." 

Always  there  was  praise  of  his  favorite  poet.  "The 
happiest  forms  of  poetic  expression,"  he  continued, 
"are  cast  in  simplest  phraseology.  The  student  of 
poetic  composition  is  not  long  in  finding  that  the  secret 
of  enduring  verse  lies  in  spontaneity  of  expression, 
and  the  grace  of  pure  simplicity.  Longfellow  has  fur 
nished  many  notable  examples,  first  among  which  I 
class  the  poem,  The  Day  Is  Done/  It  is  like  resting 
to  read  it.  It  is  like  bending  with  silent,  uncovered 


82  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

head  beneath  the  benediction  of  the  stars.  It  is  in 
finitely  sorrowful,  and  yet  so  humanely  comforting, 
one  can  but  breathe  a  blessing  on  the  kindly  heart 
from  which  is  poured  the 

'Feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 
That  is  not  akin  to  pain/ 

"The  tribute  of  true  praise/'  he  went  on,  "may  oft- 
times  rest  upon  the  vagrant  verses  of  a  singer  all  un 
known  to  fame.  Somewhere  years  ago  I  remember 
clipping  from  an  obscure  country  paper,  a  little  poem, 
which  to  me  has  always  seemed  a  solitaire  of  rhythmi 
cal  excellence.  It  was  an  orphan,  too,  without  a  friend 
or  relative  in  all  the  world  to  claim  it,  but  I  took  the 
little  gypsy  home  with  me  to  love  it  always."  (He  did 
not  then  know  that  Mary  Kyle  Dallas  is  its  author. 
But  he  told  its  happy  name,  "Brave  Love,"  and  re 
cited  it.) 

As  he  did  so  Riley's  radiance  of  affection  was  such 
that  his  audience  seemed  to  see  and  feel  and  touch 
and  taste  poetry.  They  saw  it  in  the  falling  shadows 
of  the  dusk,  they  felt  it  in  the  unbroken  silence  of  the 
night.  They  tasted  it  "in  the  wine  of  love  that  ripened 
in  their  hearts  and  rose  to  their  eyelids  in  warm 
tears." 

Before  going  far  into  the  lecture,  Riley  called  atten 
tion  to  "the  fact  that  the  nearer  the  approach  to  Na 
ture,  in  language,  expression  and  unobtrusive  utter 
ance,  the  higher  the  value  of  Character  and  Poetry." 
In  illustration  of  this  "simple  fact,"  he  submitted  to 
his  hearers  two  poems — "Farmer  Whipple,  Bachelor" 
and  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine."  The  effect  of  the 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      83 

latter  was  magical — magical  then,  and  always  after 
ward. 

Then  came  the  poet's  defense  of  dialect.  There  had 
been  in  educational  circles  opposition  to  its  use,  and 
in  some  quarters  the  objection  had  rankled  with  bitter 
ness.  "While  it  would  seem  that  the  very  choicest 
specimens  of  our  modern  dialectic  verse,  such  as  pro 
duced  by  Bret  Harte,  John  Hay  and  others/'  said  the 
lecturer,  "are  destined  to  survive  the  fleeting  recogni 
tion  of  the  daily  press,  it  becomes  something  of  a  prob 
lem  to  the  student  why  the  dialectic  poetry  of  Burns 
should  yet  be  living  on,  as  fresh  and  sweet  to-day  as 
when  an  age  ago  it  cropped  above  the  heather  bells 
of  Scotland  in  a  bloom  of  song  that  filled  the  whole 
world  with  its  fragrance.  And  while  it  remains  a 
truth  that  the  'Cantie  blether  o'  the  Hielands'  affords 
a  singularly  musical  and  rich  vernacular,  I  am  in 
clined  to  think  that  our  own  native  dialect,  with  the 
exception,  perhaps,  of  ungrammatical  abandon,  is 
scarcely  the  inferior  of  the  Scotch,  if  we  but  pause 
to  contemplate  it  with  more  seriousness,  for  in  our 
hurried  notice  of  it  we  catch  nothing  of  its  deeper 
worth;  only  its  lighter  attributes  are  visible.  With 
our  fickle  knowledge  of  all  its  deeper  worth  and  purity, 
it  is  little  wonder  that  its  mission  is  so  often  debased 
to  serve  the  ends  of  the  rhyming  punsters  and  poetical 
thugs  of  our  'Comic  Weeklies/  until  at  last  its  stand 
ing  in  the  literary  field  may  be  likened  more  to  the 
character  of  a  lawless  intruder  than  a  dear,  old- 
fashioned  friend  who  comes  to  shake  a  hearty  hand 
with  us,  and  gossip  of  the  good  old  days  'when  you  and 
I  were  young/  The  idea  has  become  popular  that  the 
dialectic  poem  must  necessarily  be  done  in  the  slangiest 


84  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

phraseology,  with  copious  suggestions  of  vulgarity, 
and  'milky-ways'  of  asterisks,  which  the  reader  is  left 
to  pepper  out  with  his  own  choice  of  expletives.  This 
is  all  wrong.  The  field  of  dialect  is  flowered  over  with 
the  rarest  growth  of  poesy,  and  its  bloom  is  no  less 
fragrant  because  it  springs  from  loam,  and  flourishes 
among  the  weeds.  However  dialectic  expression  may 
have  been  abused,  certain  it  is  that  in  no  expression 
is  there  better  opportunity  for  the  reproduction  of 
pure  nature.  In  artlessness  of  construction  the  dia 
lectic  poem  may  attain  even  higher  excellence  than  the 
more  polished  specimens  of  English.  Its  great  defect 
seems  to  be  that,  as  written  or  printed,  the  real  feel 
ing  it  contains  is  overlooked  by  the  reader  in  the  con 
templation  of  its  oddity.  That  it  is  more  widely  copied 
by  the  press  than  any  other  type  of  versification,  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  is  the  result  of  a  superficial  regard 
for  its  general  abandon  rather  than  a  wholesome  recog 
nition  of  its  real  worth,  which,  though  always  more 
than  half  buried  in  the  debris  of  rhetoric,  is  the  more 
precious  when  unearthed.  Hence  it  is  that  we  are  so 
tardy  in  admitting  it  has  any  worth  whatever,  much 
less  its  very  superior  worth  of  character  and  truth 
fulness  to  life.  In  defense  of  it  I  would  offer  a  poem 
entitled  'Old-Fashioned  Roses/  the  language  of  an 
old-timer,  who  once  took  the  trouble  to  explain  to  me 
his  love  of  the  flowers  about  his  doorway." 

At  one  point,  Carmel,  Indiana,  the  poet  lectured  in 
a  church,  and  friends  observed  that  he  seemed  quite 
at  home  in  the  pulpit.  The  old-fashioned  roses  made 
an  impression  inexpressibly  sweet.  They  were  not 
gaudy ;  there  was  no  style  about  them,  yet  their  owner, 
the  old  man,  could  not  do  without  them : 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      85 

"He  was  happier  in  the  posies. 

And  the  hollyhawks  and  sich, 
v     Than  the  hummin'  bird  'at  noses 
In  the  roses  of  the  rich." 

"Observe,"  said  the  poet  to  his  hearers,  "how  the  flow 
ers  suggest  to  our  old-time  friend  the  good  old- 
fashioned  words,  and  that  he  can  no  more  do  without 
the  words  than  he  can  do  without  the  roses.  Colleges 
may  disown  him  but  God  does  not.  Poetry  is  purity," 
Riley  affirmed,  laying  his  hand  reverently  on  the  Bible. 
"Where  purity  abounds,  poetry  abounds.  This  Book  of 
Books  says  the  pure  in  heart  shall  see  God.  Our  old 
man  in  the  doorway  was  poetic  because  his  heart  was 
pure.  He  had  the  poetry  of  character,  and  will,  I  be 
lieve,  as  certainly  see  God  as  the  fishermen  saw  Him, 
who  walked  with  Jesus  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee." 

It  was  possible  for  "the  rhyming  punsters,  by  their 
lawless  operations,  to  damage  the  dignity  of  the 
Hoosier  idiom  beyond  recovery.  As  an  instance  of  the 
tendency  to  degrade  it,  Riley  offered  next  on  the  pro 
gram  "a  rambling  dissertation  on  the  Tree  Toad." 

Before  leaving  a  theme  which  to  him  at  least  "had 
for  a  long  time  been  a  source  of  infinite  interest  and 
delight,"  he  asked  his  audience  "to  bear  with  the  nar 
ration  of  a  story  from  real  life — 'Tradin'  Joe/  " 

When  Riley,  years  before,  recited  the  poem  from 
the  steps  of  the  Wizard  Oil  wagon — to  tell  it  in  his 
own  words — "I  thrust  a  hand  in  my  pocket,  and  rum 
pling  with  the  other  my  hair  to  fluffiness,  drew  over 
my  features  a  sly  look  of  conceit  and  self-assurance, 
turned  up  the  corners  of  my  eyes  and  mouth,  and  re 
cited  the  lines  in  a  rasping  yet  not  altogether  un- 
melodious  drawl."  In  the  lecture  Riley  retained  the 


86  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

drawl,  but  almost  all  the  other  features  of  the  early 
rendition  were  omitted  as  being  beneath  the  dignity 
of  the  platform. 

The  opinion  prevailed  that,  over  and  over  again,  in 
his  selections,  Riley  characterized  himself — for  in 
stance,  in  "Tradin'  Joe,"  the  poet  was  the  fellow  that 
folks  call  "slow"— 

"And  I'll  say  jest  here  Pm  kind  o'  queer 

Regardin'  things  'at  I  see  and  hear; 
Fer  I'm  thick  o'  hearin'  sometimes,  and 

It's  hard  to  git  me  to  understand; 
But  other  times  it  hain't,  you  bet! 
Fer  I  don't  sleep  with  both  eyes  shet !" 

Always  the  audience  was  made  aware,  by  quaint  ac 
cent,  tone  of  voice  and  delicacy  of  gesture  that  the 
poet,  though  appearing  inattentive,  was  nevertheless 
seeing  everything  with  superior  intelligence. 

After  narrating  the  pathetic  story  of  a  German 
father  in  the  poem  "Dot  Leedle  Boy  of  Mine,"  Riley 
proceeded  to  "bring  down  the  house"  with  a  number 
that  had  been  popular  since  the  night  he  first  read 
it  in  Lovett's  parlor  at  Anderson.  His  hearers  had 
been  warned  to  "have  their  buttons  well  sewed  on," 
if  they  did  not  want  to  lose  them  when  they  came  to 
"The  Object  Lesson."  "His  triumph  in  the  number," 
said  Myron  Reed,  "was  largely  due  to  a  secret  laughter 
that  tickled  the  poet's  soul.  He  imitated  a  general 
type  of  the  time,  and  that  was  the  reason  audiences 
never  failed  to  recognize  it.  The  Educator  was  not 
confined  to  out-of-the-way  places,  but  was  found  in 
large  cities  as  well.  He  was  a  picturesque  donkey 
and  none  enjoyed  his  caricature  more  than  the  teach- 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      87 

ers.    The  humor  did  not  require  a  long,  psychological 
analysis  with  charts  to  explain  it." 

Riley  had  first  met  the  Educator  at  a  county  teach 
ers'  institute  at  Anderson,  Indiana,  but  for  obvious 
reasons  he  disguised  the  fact.  "Barely  a  year  ago," 
he  said,  introducing  "The  Object  Lesson,"  "I  attended 
the  Friday  afternoon  exercises  of  a  country  school. 
Among  a  host  of  visitors  was  a  pale  young  man  of 
thirty  years,  perhaps,  with  a  tall  head  and  bulging 
brow,  and  a  highly  intellectual  pair  of  eyes  and  spec 
tacles.  He  wore  his  hair  without  'roach*  or  'part,' 
and  his  smile  was  'a  joy  forever.'  He  was  an  educa 
tor — from  the  East,  I  think  I  heard  it  rumored — any 
way  when  he  was  introduced  to  the  school,  at  last,  he 
bowed  and  smiled  and  beamed  upon  us  and  entertained 
us  in  the  most  delightfully  edifying  manner  imagin 
able.  Although  I  may  fail  to  reproduce  the  exact  sub 
stance  of  his  remarks  on  that  highly  important  occa 
sion,  I  think  I  can  at  least  present  his  theme  in  all  its 
coherency  of  detail.  Addressing  particularly  the  pri 
mary  grade  of  the  school,  he  said : 

"  'As  the  little  exercise  I  am  about  to  introduce  is  of 
recent  origin,  and  the  bright,  intelligent  faces  of  the 
pupils  before  me  seem  rife  with  eager  and  expectant 
interest,  it  will  be  well  for  me  perhaps  to  offer  by 
way  of  preparatory  preface  a  few  terse  words  of  ex 
planation.  The  Object  Lesson — the  Object  Lesson  is 
designed  to  fill  a  long-felt  want,  and  is  destined,  as  I 
think,  to  revolutionize  in  a  great  degree  the  educa 
tional  systems  of  our  land.  In  my  belief  the  Object 
Lesson  will  supply  a  want  which  I  may  safely  say  has 
heretofore  left  the  most  egregious  and  palpable  traces 
of  mental  confusion  and  intellectual  inadequacies 


88  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

stamped,  as  it  were,  upon  the  gleaming  reasons  of  the 
most  learned,  the  highest  cultured,  and  most  eminently 
gifted  and  promising  of  our  professors  and  scientists 
both  at  home — and  abroad/  " 

Such  was  the  introduction  and  first  paragraph  of 
a  recitation  that  required  fifteen  minutes  in  delivery. 
The  "toplofty"  language,  the  utterly  ridiculous  relation 
of  the  "picturesque  donkey"  to  the  pupils,  was  ap 
parent  to  the  audience  from  the  first.  The  Educator, 
bobbing  up  and  down  at  intervals  on  his  toes,  his  body 
"statuesque  and  straight  as  a  candle,"  with  his  hands 
clasped  in  front  as  children  do  in  making  the  "church 
steeple,"  his  thumbs  up  and  the  index  fingers  pointing 
outward  across  the  footlights,  was  a  picture  as  un- 
forgetable  as  it  was  ridiculous  and  convulsing. 

The  last  number  on  the  program  was  "The  Bear 
Story."  Always  in  telling  it,  memory  went  back  along 
"the  truant  paths  of  childhood."  "In  all  the  bound 
less  range  of  character,"  said  Riley,  introducing  the 
story,  "there  is  no  field  so  universally  attractive,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  lightly  dwelt  upon,  as  that  pre 
sented  by  child-life.  There  is  no  phase  of  it  but  is 
filled  to  overflowing  with  the  rarest  interest.  In  the 
blossom-faces  of  the  children  the  sunshine  nestles  in 
its  fairest  light,  and  in  the  ever-wondering  eyes  of 
baby-innocence  we  see  reflected  back  the  misty  lotus- 
lands  of  every  joy.  And  there  is  one  characteristic 
of  the  child  of  five  that  I  would  reproduce.  Every 
parent  will  remember  with  what  rare  delight  he  has 
marked  the  ever-varying  features  of  the  listening  tod 
dler  at  the  knee  as  he  hears  recounted  for  the  hun 
dredth  time  the  story  of  'Red  Riding  Hood*  or  'Jack 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      89 

The  Giant  Killer*  or  the  far-famed  history  of  The 
Three  Bears/  And  every  parent  will  remember,  too, 
with  what  astonishment  and  pleasure  he  has  listened 
in  return  to  the  crude  attempts  of  the  miniature  ro 
mancer,  as  the  spirit  of  inventive  genius  first  invests 
the  youthful  mind  in  the  little  home-made  sketches  of 
the  wonderful  that  he  weaves  from  his  own  fancy. 
Such  a  study  I  will  endeavor  to  present,  with  scarcely 
an  embellishment  of  my  own — for  the  language,  as  I 
give  it,  is  almost  word  for  word  the  original." 

In  A  Child-World,  the  story  appears  essentially 
as  Riley  told  it  back  in  1879.  Its  success  on  the  plat 
form  lay  in  the  poet's  power  to  transfigure  "the  babble 
of  baby-lips"  and  make  it  as  dear  to  parents  as  the 
sunny  lispings  of  their  own  young  hopefuls.  A  sec 
ond  factor  in  its  success  was  the  poet's  lively  memory 
of  it  as  when — a  boy  of  twenty-two — he  told  the  story 
by  lantern  light  to  a  crowd  of  youngsters  on  a  village 
street  in  Henry  County. 

Riley  made  his  first  Indianapolis  hit  in  March,  1879, 
in  an  entertainment  by  home  artists  at  the  Grand 
Opera  House.  His  second  appearance,  October  16, 
popularly  termed  The  Park  Theater  Benefit,  deserves 
more  liberal  notice. 

The  city's  literary  group  had  been  interested  in  the 
"Greenfield  Poet"  from  the  time  he  began  to  con 
tribute  to  the  Journal,  and  it  was  out  of  this  group 
that  the  first  impulse  for  a  public  testimonial  de 
veloped,  developed  while  the  poet  was  still  a  resident 
of  Greenfield.  Business  men  interested  themselves 
in  it,  among  them  General  Daniel  Macauley,  whose 
love  of  the  poet  was  genuine  and  deep-seated.  "Riley 


90  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

is  the  greatest  bard  south  of  54:40,"  said  he.  The 
date  for  the  "Benefit"  having  been  selected,  the  Gen 
eral  wrote  Riley  as  follows: 

Water  Works  Company,  23  South  Pennsylvania  Street, 

Indianapolis,  September  16,  1879. 
Dear  Boy: 

Will  at  once  secure  the  theatre  and  will  give  you 
particulars.  You  don't  need  one  cent — don't  think  of 
it.  We  will  do  everything  and  if  there  is  profit  it  is 
yours — if  not  it  is  ows.  We  esteem  it  a  privilege  and 
an  honor,  and  if  we  mistake  not  our  people  will 
"Boom"  for  you.  The  public  is  a  capricious  beast 
and  may  have  some  d — d  fool  engagement  that  night 
elsewhere,  but  we  propose  to  give  them  an  all-fired 
good  chance  to  "come  and  see  us."  You  have  no  more 
care,  nothing  more  to  do  with  it  but  to  come  over  and 
speak  your  piece  and  "collar  the  boodle"  afterwards. 
We  blow  out  in  the  Herald  this  week,  and  then  fire  all 
along  the  line. 

Your  pard, 

DANIEL  MACAULEY. 

NEW  PARK  THEATER 

Thursday  Evening,  October  16  (1879) 

Complimentary  Testimonial  to 

MR.     J.    W.     RILEY 

THE  INDIANA  POET 

Tendered  by  the  citizens  of  Indianapolis 

An  Evening  of  Original  Character 

Sketches  and  Dialectic  Readings 

was  the  "blow  out"  in  the  Herald,  and  from  that 
moment  the  success  of  the  "Benefit"  was  assured. 
Whatever  General  Macauley  undertook  for  other 
people,  it  was  said,  always  succeeded.  As  the  time 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      91 

approached  Riley  mailed  complimentary  tickets  to  lit 
erary  friends — the  "host  of  contributors"  who  the 
year  past  had  united  with  him  to  make  a  name  for 
themselves  and  the  Kokomo  Tribune.  "The  Little 
Man  is  to  have  a  big  house — the  promise  is  most  flat 
tering,"  he  wrote,  "and  my  lecture  (Poetry  and  Char 
acter)  I  really  think  is  one  that  you  will  approve." 
"Don't  you  dare  to  forget  me,"  he  wrote  another. 
"Fe-fi-f o-f um !  You  must  come.  Will  have  many  lit 
erary  friends  I  want  you  to  meet.  Am  humming 
like  a  telegraph  pole.  Chrlpkin  aprrrrooommmm ! ! ! 
Yours  gaspingly,  J.  W.  R." 

"A  week  before,"  said  Riley,  "I  went  over  to  the 
city  to  stay  till  the  lecture ;  had  to  buy  sleeve  buttons, 
shoe  strings,  and  have  my  justly  celebrated  complexion 
powdered."  This  was  amusing  enough  when  he  said 
it,  years  after  the  lecture,  but  it  was  a  tragic  week  of 
suspense.  He  was  on  the  gridiron.  If  he  made  good 
in  Indianapolis,  he  could  make  good  throughout 
Indiana. 

"I  am  anxious  for  your  success,"  wrote  his  young 
sister  Mary  from  home.  "With  this,  accept  my  kind 
est  wishes  in  a  shower  of  flowers  with  peals  of  ap 
plause  and  encores  ringing  in  your  ears."  So  the 
"Benefit"  proved  to  be,  notwithstanding  counter-at 
tractions,  including  a  circus,  a  minstrel  show,  a  rain 
storm,  and  the  enormous  advance  sale  of  seats  for  the 
brilliant  young  Mary  Anderson  in  Evadne. 

The  beautiful  theater,  according  to  the  newspaper 
report,  was  well  filled  with  a  cultured  and  critical 
audience.  The  poet  was  introduced  by  General 
Macauley,  who  was  extremely  felicitous,  not  only  in 
what  he  said  but  in  his  manner  of  saying  it.  He  put 


92  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  audience  in  the  best  of  humor  and  broke  the  ice 
always  present  on  occasions  when  one  does  not  know 
just  what  is  to  come.  "To  me,"  the  General  said,  "has 
been  assigned  the  duty  of  introducing  Mr.  Riley — a 
duty  which  I  perform  with  pride  and  pleasure.  I  ad 
mit  that  from  the  remarkable  surfeit  of  other  attrac 
tions  in  town  this  week,  I  began  to  fear  it  might  be 
more  economical  to  introduce  the  audience  to  Mr. 
Riley.  Fortunately  all  is  well  in  that  direction.  I 
am  willing  to  allow,  even  in  the  gentleman's  presence, 
that,  being  human,  he  must  necessarily  in  some  degree 
be  sinful,  but  what  atrocious  thing  he  can  have  com 
mitted  to  have  had  a  whole  circus  thrown  at  him,  is 
more  than  we  can  guess.  I  would  say  to  Mr.  Riley 
that  we  are  proud  of  the  efforts  he  is  making,  and  the 
fame  he  is  winning  for  himself  and  for  us  his  neigh 
bors,  throughout  our  country.  In  our  strongest  terms 
of  endearment  and  encouragement,  we  tell  him  to  go 
forward  as  he  has  begun.  The  time  will  come,  we 
fondly  hope  and  believe — if  his  riper  years  fulfill  the 
promise  of  his  youth — when  something  akin  to  the 
Scotch  pride  in  Burns  shall  be  felt  by  us  for  him/' 

When  the  evening  seemed  fairly  under  way,  Riley 
made  his  bow  and  retired.  The  applause  continuing, 
General  Macauley  came  to  the  front  with  the  remark 
that  before  the  lecture  Riley  had  asked  him  what  he 
should  talk  about  and  he  had  answered,  "about  an 
hour."  The  hour  was  up.  The  demonstration  con 
tinuing,  Riley  appeared  again,  responding  with  a 
second  child-sketch,  and  then  the  curtain  fell  for  the 
night. 

The  Indianapolis  papers  were  most  appreciative. 
The  Sentinel  was  proud  that  the  young  state  poet  had 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      93 

done  himself  and  the  city  mutual  credit.  With  experi 
ence  and  cultivation  he  could  tread  the  boards  along 
side  the  foremost  comedians  of  the  time.  The  News 
was  certain  his  fertility  and  exuberance  of  imagina 
tion  and  his  power  of  delineation  would  make  him  one 
of  the  first  readers  of  America. 

There  were  two  newspaper  men  whose  praise  was 
most  desired,  George  Harding  and  Berry  Sulgrove. 
"If  we  gain  those  fellows,"  said  General  Macauley  to 
the  poet,  "we  have  gained  all."  They  differed  from 
each  other  in  many  ways,  but  both  spoke  the  truth 
fearlessly.  What  would  they  say?  "Some  day," 
wrote  Harding,  "Riley  will  have  a  national  fame,  and 
it  will  be  worth  something  to  us  to  know  that  we 
appreciated  the  poet  and  attested  our  appreciation  be 
fore  everybody  else  did." 

"Nothing  succeeds  like  success,"  wrote  Sulgrove  in 
the  Herald,  "and  Mr.  Riley  may  take  his  first  venture 
on  the  stage,  or  the  platform,  in  this  city,  as  an  omen 
of  a  promising  hereafter.  Casting  his  horoscope  to 
an  hour  on  the  dial  of  time  two  years  hence,  and  then 
looking  a  couple  of  years  down  the  course  of  events, 
he  may  see  himself  among  the  most  attractive  of  pubr 
lie  lecturers.  His  fortune  lies  with  himself  now,  and 
he  will  wrong  his  powers  and  his  opportunities  if  he 
does  not  win  it." 

After  the  "Benefit"  both  Harding  and  Sulgrove 
talked  to  Riley  personally  about  his  recitations.  Hard 
ing  assured  him  that  his  perception  of  character  was 
"as  keen  as  that  of  our  famous  actors  and  more  sensi 
tive  to  delicate  traits." 

Both  friends  advised  the  poet  to  weed  out  the  didac 
tic  part  of  his  lecture.  It  was  irrelevant — a  general 


94  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

dissertation  on  poetry  was  unnecessary.  "You  are 
not  a  critic ;  you  are  a  poet  and  an  actor."  Riley  did 
not  immediately  follow  the  suggestion,  but  as  he  said, 
"came  round  to  their  peg  two  years  later." 

The  "Benefit"  was  truly  a  milestone.  Thence  for 
ward  Riley  reached  out  over  the  state.  One  evening 
he  "dropped  down  to  Bloomington,"  he  said,  "to 
twitter  to  the  students."  So  far  as  known,  only  one 
student  was  present,  William  Lowe  Bryan,  now  presi 
dent  of  the  University.  "I  am  not  sure,"  writes  the 
president,  "that  I  heard  Mr.  Riley's  first  reading  in 
Bloomington.  I  remember,  however,  hearing  him 
read  in  the  shabby  little  town  hall  when  I  was  a 
student.  My  friend  Henry  Bates,  the  Shoemaker, 
asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  hear  the  new  poet.  There 
were  not  above  five  and  twenty  persons  present.  I 
had  heard  nothing  of  Riley  and  had  no  high  expecta 
tions  as  to  what  I  should  hear.  Never  was  a  more 
overwhelming  and  joyful  surprise — 'The  Object  Les 
son/  'The  Bear  Story/  and  many  more.  A  few  years 
later  we  paid  Mr.  Riley  five  hundred  dollars  for  essen 
tially  the  same  program.  He  was  then  already  an 
artist  on  the  stage  as  truly  as  was  Joe  Jefferson." 

Near  the  end  of  1879  the  "Bret  Harte  of  Indiana" 
first  advanced  across  the  state  line,  and  with  that  ven 
ture  he  discovered  his  inability  to  board  the  right 
train ;  reach  his  destination  on  time.  "I  don't  remem 
ber  places,"  he  once  remarked:  "Hold  on,  I  do  re 
member  one  town,  Rockville,  Indiana, — and  a  tall, 
gaunt,  flickering  figure  in  the  hallway.  The  figure 
had  not  come  to  tell  me  how  I  had  played  upon  the 
heartstrings  of  my  hearers.  He  came  in  the  name  of 


GEORGE  C.  HITT,  PUBLISHER  OF  THE  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK 


SENATOR  HARRY  S.  NEW 
From  a  photograph  taken  while  an  officer  in  the  Spanish-American  War 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      95 

the  law  to  levy  on  my  door  receipts  for  some  fancied 
claim  of  five  dollars." 

A  week  before  the  New  Year,  he  made  his  bow  to 
Illinois,  "went  over,"  as  he  said,  "to  impart  an  intel 
lectual  stimulus  to  the  little  town  of  Galva."  Posters 
announced  him  as  "John  C.  Walker,"  author  of 
"Romancin'"  and  "Tom  Johnson's  Quit."  Before 
making  the  hazardous  journey  he  wrote  Howard  S. 
Taylor,  then  a  resident  of  the  place,  asking  for  par 
ticulars,  when  and  how  to  start  to  Galva,  "because," 
he  said,  "I  am  as  blind  as  a  bat  on  railroads.  And 
right  here  let  me  tell  you,  get  your  umbrella.  I  never 
fail  to  bring  a  storm  of  some  kind.  I  am  a  surer  thing 
on  rain  than  the  tree-toad." 

Taylor  knew  the  poet  had  no  instinct  for  locality, 
and  was  therefore  explicit.  "Route  and  the  time  as 
follows — Fare  ten  dollars — change  cars  at  Peoria — 
(a)  Ask  editor  the  Journal  for  a  pass  to  Peoria — (6) 
Get  on  the  I.  B.  &  W.  train  at  Indianapolis  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  night ;  take  a  chair  and  nap  until  about  nine 
next  morning,  when  your  eyes  will  open  in  Peoria — (c) 
Get  out  at  the  depot  and  do  not  forget  your  satchel — 
(d)  Buy  a  ticket  to  Galva — (e)  Board  the  Peoria  and 
Rock  Island  train — (/)  Paste  this  in  your  hat  lest  you 
lose  it  and  turn  up  in  Pekin  or  somewhere  else — (g) 
Have  thou  nothing  to  do  with  the  peanut  man  or 
strangers  on  the  road — (h)  Wire  me  when  you  reach 
Peoria  as  the  women  want  to  crimp  their  hair." 

Some  of  his  friends  envied  the  poet  as  he  went 
from  town  to  town  tasting  the  sweets  of  fame.  "It 
was  not  so  dismal,"  he  wrote  one  of  them  later,  "when 
I  had  to  wait  for  trains  in  the  daylight.  I  could  go 


96  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

round  to  the  music  stores,  take  down  a  violin  and  tune 
it,  and  bring  back  across  the  years  the  sound  of  old 
melodies.  But  it  was  grinning  a  ghastly  smile  when 
I  had  to  wait  at  night,  or  travel  between  county  seats, 
on  muddy  roads,  in  a  buggy.  I  recall  a  dreary  mid 
night  at  a  little  station  down  on  the  Old  Jeff.  Road. 
It  was  a  raw  cheerless  night.  The  utter  darkness  of 
everything  on  the  outside  gave  to  the  stranger  a  sense 
of  blank  desolation.  Inside  the  waiting-room  a 
boisterous  fire  was  pulsing  in  a  'torpedo'  stove  which 
stood  ankle-deep  in  a  box  of  sawdust  filled  with  cigar 
stubs  and  refuse  tobacco.  Outside  the  operator's  win 
dow  the  signal  lantern  was  buffeted  by  the  vindictive 
wind.  Telegraph  wires  snored  and  snarled  on  the 
pole  at  the  corner  of  the  station.  The  lonely  ticking 
of  the  instrument  in  the  office  was  unbearable.  It  was 
a  relief  when  a  wild  freight  train  went  jarring  by  and 
I  stood  on  the  rainy  platform  and  watched  the  red 
light  of  the  caboose  as  it  burned  itself  to  ashes  and 
was  lost  in  the  black  embers  of  the  night.  About  that 
time  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  came  along,  making  signs 
to  me  to  carry  him  off  on  my  back.  No  agent  to  tell 
you  the  train  was  four  hours  late.  Wait  there  in 
those  grim,  hysterical  conditions  till  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  as  I  did,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  seem  so 
unclassical  in  a  poet  to  uncork  a  calabash,  take  a  few , 
potations  and  climb  on  the  train  three  sheets  in  the 
wind." 

The  lecture  season  of  1880-'81  brought  such  addi 
tions  to  Riley's  program  as  "Little  Tommy  Smith"  and 
"The  Champion  Checker  Player  of  Ameriky."  It 
opened  auspiciously  one  Tuesday  evening  at  Dickson's 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      97 

Grand  Opera  House,  Indianapolis.  Later  in  the  sea 
son  he  made  a  rather  extended  tour  through  Northern 
Indiana,  a  tour  that  required  for  the  first  time, 
something  a  little  larger  than  a  satchel,  a  little 
smaller  than  a  trunk.  Baggage  men  called  it  a  tele 
scope.  "In  those  bygone  days,"  said  Riley,  "I  was 
showing  in  towns  which  can  now  be  found  only  on 
county  maps.  I  had  a  varied  experience  in  school 
halls  and  skating  rinks,  and  something  to  remember 
about  country  hotels.  My  first  engagement  was  at 
Cambridge  City.  Having  a  vague  impression  that 
Cambridge  and  Dublin  were  twin  towns,  I  got  off  at 
Dublin.  I  arrived  just  after  the  noon  hour.  The 
little  sleepy  village  was  taking  its  siesta.  The  hotel 
keeper's  boy  was  at  the  station  with  a  spring  wagon, 
into  which  he  loaded  my  telescope  with  other  baggage 
and  drove  away.  When  I  reached  the  hotel  I  found 
the  baggage  on  the  front  porch  and  the  landlord  lean 
ing  back  in  an  easy  chair  smoking  a  corn-cob  pipe.  I 
thought  the  hour  had  arrived  for  the  lecturer  on 
"Poetry  and  Character"  to  show  a  few  signs  of  travel 
experience.  I  entered  the  office  and  a  girl  came  out  of 
the  dining-room  to  show  me  where  to  register.  Re 
turning  to  the  porch  I  said,  'That  telescope  you  see 
right  over  there  is  mine.' 

"  'All  right/  says  the  landlord. 

"  'I  want  it  taken  to  my  room.' 

"  'All  right,'  repeated  the  landlord. 

"  'How  soon  may  I  have  it?' 

"  'Well,  the  boy's  puttin'  the  horse  up  jest  now,  but 
soon  as  he  gits  back,  he'll  he'p  you  carry  it  up.' " 

Thus  Riley  began  what  he  called  a  tour  of  the  "re- 


98  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

mote  provinces,"  swinging  round  the  arc  to  the  Tippe- 
canoe  Battle  Ground,  where  the  tour  ended  "in  a  little 
hall  over  a  country  store." 

Returning  to  the  Journal  office — the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  those  lecture  wanderings — Riley  found  the 
"reportorial  band"  as  eager  as  ever  to  welcome  him, 
and  on  that  particular  day,  the  droll  Myron  Reed  was 
among  them.  "A  fugacious  tour,"  said  Reed.  "Have 
you  any  home  folks?"  asked  a  reporter.  "Know  any 
thing  about  your  ancestors?"  added  Reed.  "Or  the 
size  of  gate  receipts  by  moonlight?"  continued  the  re 
porter.  "Where  did  you  come  from?"  all  asked  at 
once. 

"From  the  Battle  Ground,"  returned  Riley.  "Big 
fight !  Didn't  see  Tecumseh.  He  was  away  on  a  little 
tour  of  his  own.  The  Prophet  was  there  though,  back 
in  the  rear,  you  know,  where  the  generals  always  are 
while  the  fight  is  on.  A  farmer  saved  my  telescope — 
brought  it  and  its  celebrated  owner  to  the  train  in  a 
buckboard." 

The  lecture  year  he  had  just  begun  was  far  more 
prosperous  than  the  preceding  ones.  Return  engage 
ments  were  the  rule,  Crawfordsville  and  Terre  Haute 
demanding  "three  readings  in  one  season."  With  all 
this  he  did  not  neglect  his  Journal  duties.  Writing 
Roselind  E.  Jones,  he  said,  "I  am  crowded  to  the  raw 
edge  of  distraction,  and,  if  I  don't  die  soon,  am  cer 
tainly  in  for  a  hard  fall  and  winter.  You  see,  I  lec 
ture  in  the  winter  season,  and  if  you  can  just  imagine 
a  leetle,  weenty-teenty  man,  with  no  more  dignity  than 
I  possess,  trying  to  appear  serious  before  'applausive 
thousands/  you  can  perhaps  arrive  at  some  conclusion 


SUCCESS  ON  THE  PLATFORM      99 

of  the  amount  of  preparation  necessary  in  the  produc 
tion  of  such  a  program.  And  that  program  I  am  now 
engaged  upon,  and  slashing  away  at  the  swarms  of 
other  duties  like  a  small  boy  in  an  adult  hornet's  nest." 


CHAPTER  VI 

LITERARY  DENS 

THE  Hoosier  Poet  was  a  dreamer.  Many  thick- 
coming  fancies  "broke  upon  the  idle  seashore 
of  his  mind — dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to 
dream  before."  Sometimes  those  dreams  were  as  full 
of  fate  as  his  songs  were  full  of  melody.  Again  they 
were  visionary;  at  least  they  were  so  regarded  by  the 
god  of  this  world.  "If  I  had  as  much  money  as 
Carnegie,"  he  once  remarked,  "I  would  restore  the 
homes  of  great  artists  and  poets.  I  would  build  the 
Anne  Hathaway  Cottage  on  a  lake  somewhere  in  Wis 
consin,  the  Longfellow  Homestead  in  Indiana,  the 
Whittier  Birthplace  in  some  other  state.  Interesting 
indeed  a  great  park  would  be  if  it  contained  the  homes 
and  literary  dens  of  eminent  authors — Abbotsford, 
and  the  majesty  of  Tennyson's  estate  at  Farringford, 
and  so  on." 

Should  any  multi-millionaire  of  the  future  desire  to 
restore  the  Riley  literary  dens,  he  would  quite  soon 
discover  his  attempt  to  be  a  sleeveless  errand. 
Throughout  his  "Prolific  Decade"  and  years  before 
and  after  it,  Riley  had  no  fixed  place  of  abode.  Being 
a  literary  Bedouin,  his  study  was  where  he  pitched 
his  tent — a  solitary  place  if  he  could  find  it.  "I  hope 
it  will  be  made  clear  to  posterity,"  he  said,  "that  I 
want  to  be  let  alone.  One  must  have  a  nest  in  which 
his  literary  fledglings  may  grow  feet  and  wings — 

100 


LITERARY  DENS  101 

Mary  Anderson  a  dramatic  den,  and  Uncle  Remus  his 
mocking-bird's  nest." 

In  the  first  years  of  his  literary  ventures,  Riley  had 
a  desk  in  his  paint  shop  over  a  drug  store  in  Green 
field.  He  also  occupied  an  old  superstitious  room  in 
the  Dunbar  House. 

Another  Greenfield  den  is  recalled  by  the  poet's 
early  friend,  A.  W,  Macy,  first  publisher  of  the  poem, 
"Fame."  "I  found  Riley  in  a  dingy  little  law-office 
at  the  top  of  a  rickety  stairway,"  said  the  friend. 
"The  office  furniture  consisted  of  an  ancient  roll-top 
desk,  two  feeble-minded  chairs,  and  a  window-shade 
that  served  as  a  sieve  for  the  sunshine.  A  few  empty 
law  books  reposed  at  various  angles  on  top  of  the  desk. 
Within  easy  reach  was  a  good  supply  of  scratch  paper 
and  a  sharp-pointed  pencil.  With  the  rosy  enthusi 
asm  and  the  abounding  hopefulness  of  youth,  we 
plunged  into  our  old-time  favorite  subjects,  language 
and  literature — he  doing  most  of  the  talking.  For 
gotten  were  our  sordid  surroundings.  We  were  in  a 
palace  with  fine,  rare  spirits  all  about  us.  Some  won 
derful  castles  were  erected  that  afternoon,  and  not  all 
of  them,  as  it  proved,  were  made  of  air."  And  a  won 
derful  poem,  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine,"  Macy 
might  have  added,  first  saw  the  light  in  that  law-office. 

In  Indianapolis,  prior  to  his  moving  permanently 
into  Lockerbie  Street,  Riley  occupied  rooms  in  board 
ing-houses  and  old  hotels. 

There  were  three  workshops  however,  which  were 
in  a  class  to  themselves.  In  these  the  poet  accom 
plished  wonders,  wrote  almost  all  the  poems  and 
stories  that  brought  him  distinction  on  the  Indian 
apolis  Journal  and  the  weekly  papers.  First  and 


102  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

most  interesting  as  well  as  the  most  gruesome,  was 
"The  Morgue,"  on  the  shady  side  of  Main  Street, 
Greenfield — now,  strange  to  relate,  occupied  by  an 
undertaker.  Its  name  was  accidental.  Writing  Riley 
concerning  the  "Whittleford  Letters,"  from  her  liter 
ary  den  ("Castle  Thunder")  Mrs.  Catherwood  in 
formed  him  that  the  Muse  had  deserted  her.  Her 
ship  was  becalmed — nothing  left  but  just  the  dull 
pressure  of  inertia.  Riley' s  reply  was  equally  despond 
ent  ;  day  and  night  tears  had  been  his  food : 

The  Morgue,  May  22,  1879. 
Dear  Mither: 

The  cold  and  pulseless  fact  remains  unalterable. 
Think  of  it !  I'm  in  debt  to  every  living  human  being 
within  range — penniless  in  a  manner,  "warned  out" 
to  work  the  roads,  and  yet  in  one  week's  time  have 
been  compelled  by  a  pitiless  state  of  affairs  (I  won't 
lay  it  on  Providence  this  time)  to  forego  four  separate 
and  distinct  engagements  that  would  put  money  in  my 
purse.  And  now  what's  a  fellow  to  do?  Echo  howls, 
"To  do!" — and  that's  about  the  sighs  of  it.  I  can 
only  writhe  in  prayer.  Don't  think  any  one  does  me 
injustice  in  not  rewarding  my  labors  with  a  more 
lavish  hand.  That's  not  it.  It's — but  I  can't  swear 
or  I'd  tell  you;  but  I  do  hope  this  letter  will  find  you 
in  a  more  patient  frame  of  mind  than  is  now  the 
eclipsed  dower  of 

Yours,  Fate  &  Co., 

J.  W.  RILEY. 
P.S.         And  my  mortal  mind  engages 

That  no  Spider  on  the  pages 

Of  the  history  of  ages 

Ever  smole  as  grim  a  smile! 

At  the  time,  Riley  was  receiving  letters  from  a 


LITERARY  DENS  103 

friend  in  Illinois,  who  called  his  place  of  banishment, 
"Patmos,"  and  who  would  have  Indiana  writers  know 
that  others  were  denied  the  pleasures  of  society.  In 
derision  Riley  called  his  palace  of  seclusion,  "The 
Morgue" — at  first  just  the  temporary  play  of  fancy, 
but  later  retained  for  general  use.  Often  he  wrote 
from  "The  Morgue"  as  if  he  were  a  creature  of  com 
fort  living  in  clover.  Again  Fate  compelled  him  to 
summon  the  solemn  midnight  to  do  its  work  of  woe. 

The  second  of  the  three  workshops  was  Room  22  of 
the  old  Vinton  Block,  corner  of  Pennsylvania  and 
Market  Streets,  Indianapolis.  To  this  he  repaired 
soon  after  beginning  work  on  the  Journal,  "first,"  he 
said,  "because  it  was  near  the  'Journal  Works/  and 
second,  because  the  rent  was  only  five  dollars  a 
month."  After  occupying  it  for  a  while  he  began  to 
call  it  the  "Hut  of  Refuge,"  the  "old  rookery"  becom 
ing  in  time  a  gathering  spot  for  played-out  actors, 
"those  coyotes  and  wildcats  of  the  night,"  said  Riley, 
"who  escape  their  own  loneliness  by  afflicting  others 
with  their  company."  They  were  interesting  for  a 
while  but  by  and  by  became  a  nuisance.  "It's  a  peril 
ously  thin  veil,"  he  remarked,  "between  being  good 
company  and  a  bore." 

There  came  times  when  the  mandates  of  the  Muse 
were  imperial.  The  poet  was  called  to  his  task,  as 
Thoreau  phrases  it,  by  the  winds  of  heaven  and  his 
good  genius,  as  truly  as  the  preacher  was  called  to 
preach.  At  such  times  callers  were  barred  from  the 
"Refuge,"  there  being  admission  to  no  one,  save  the 
poet's  physician,  "whose  footfall,"  Riley  said,  "I  would 
know  if  I  heard  it  on  the  grass  above  my  grave." 


104  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Importunate  visitors  had  to  trust  to  the  chance  of  am 
bushing  the  poet  at  the  side  door  of  the  Journal  office. 
The  "Refuge"  was  inaccessible: 

"The  door  was  locked  and  the  key 
Was  safely  hid  in  a  hollow  tree." 

There  were  employees  on  the  Journal,  who  had  not 
the  vaguest  idea  of  that  den  in  the  Vinton  Block.  It 
pleased  Riley  to  veil  it  in  mystery,  something  like  the 
Wemmick  of  fiction,  who  at  the  close  of  the  day  retired 
to  his  little  wooden  cottage  with  the  narrow  chasm 
around  it;  as  much  as  to  say,  When  I  go  to  the  office 
I  leave  my  den  behind  me,  and  when  I  go  to  my  den 
I  leave  my  office  behind  me.  At  night,  as  Wemmick 
did,  Riley  hoisted  the  bridge  that  crossed  the  chasm 
and  thus  cut  off  communication. 

The  literary  name  of  the  "Refuge"  was  the  "Dead 
Rose," — sub  rosa,  behind  the  scenes,  in  a  whisper, 
secrecy,  silence.  It  pleased  Riley  to  say  dead  silence 
— the  "Dead  Rose."  In  the  palmy  days  of  the  Metro 
politan  Theater,  the  old  Vinton  rooms  had  been  occu 
pied  by  a  theatrical  troupe.  The  "Dead  Rose"  was 
hung  with  theatrical  trophies.  There  were  litho 
graphs  of  famous  actors  on  the  walls.  He  did  not  re 
move  them,  made  no  change  except  to  place  a  little 
terra  cotta  bust  of  Dickens  on  a  dusty  bracket  above 
his  table.  His  physician,  Doctor  Franklin  W.  Hays, 
who  shared  the  room  with  him  at  sundry  times, 
thought  the  poet  should  have  beside  Dickens  a  bust  of 
Harpocrates,  the  god  of  silence  and  prophetic  dreams. 
"Back  to  Gad's  Hill,"  said  Riley,  "is  far  enough— no 
ancient  memorials."  Late  at  night  the  lithographs 
beamed  "softly  on  the  poet  with  warm  surprise."  As 


LITERARY  DENS  105 

he  stared  at  them  dreamily  he  was  carried  back  to  his 
own  dramatic  days  and  his  success  in  The  Chimney 
Corner.  Journal  reporters  remembered  his  reproduc 
ing  the  dying  figure  of  Grandfather  Whitehead  with 
telling  effect. 

A  third  workshop  was  the  "Crow's  Nest,"  a  little 
square  room  under  the  cupola  of  the  Seminary  Home 
stead,  Greenfield,  the  quaint  old  structure  in  which  the 
poet's  father  lived  after  his  second  marriage.  Those 
were  palmy  days  for  the  poet,  up  near  the  cupola — 

"Wretched  was  he  sometimes, 
Pinched  and  harassed  with  vain  desires; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  he  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires." 

The  name,  "Crow's  Nest,"  had  been  suggested  by  the 
box  or  perch  of  that  name  in  the  top  rigging  of  Green 
land  galleys,  built  for  the  man  on  the  lookout  for 
whales.  The  room  was  fitted  up  soon  after  the  poet 
moved  to  Indianapolis  and  for  years  was  a  retreat 
when  he  sought  refuge  from  the  torture  of  the  city. 
"Going  to  Greenfield  to  look  out  for  whales,"  he  would 
say  to  his  physician,  meaning  his  purpose  to  lodge  in 
the  "Crow's  Nest"  and  keep  a  sharp  eye  out  for  "a 
tall,  majestic  poem." 

One  night  in  December  he  wrote  a  few  lines  about 
the  "Nest": 

"A  little,  dingy,  dusty  room, 
As  close  and  musty  as  a  tomb, 
With  one  blank  window  curtained  o'er 
With  dust  and  dirt  and  nothing  more, 
Where  round  the  outer  side  the  day 
Hangs  vagrant-like,  and  skulks  away, 


106  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

And  leaves  the  crescent  moon  in  vain 
Tiptoeing  at  the  topmost  pane. 
A  room,  like  some  deserted  nest, 
High-clinging  underneath  the  eaves, 
Where  winter  winds  are  surliest, 
And  where  the  Old  Year,  dying,  weaves 
The  first  fold  of  his  snowy  shroud 
And  wraps  it  round  him  like  a  cloud." 

Within  the  "deserted  nest"  is  a  lonely  lamp — "a 
feeble,  sallow,  sickly,  weird  and  ghastly  flame"  of 
diluted  light 

"Upon  the  pallid,  upturned  face 
Of  one — the  genius  of  the  place — 
Whose  duty  is  to  write  and  write, 
Nor  rest  him  either  day  or  night; 
Whose  duty  is  to  write,  erase, 
And  write  again,  and  underscore, 
Review  his  work,  and  cull  it  o'er, 
And  write  again,  and  pause,  efface, 
And  scratch  his  head  for  something  more 
To  write  about,  until,  as  now, 
His  pen  is  idle  as  a  vow." 

Suggestions  along  the  way  pointed  to  the  impor 
tance  of  seclusion.  One  came  from  Mark  Twain,  a 
scrap  of  advice  to  young  writers,  which  Riley  clipped 
from  a  newspaper.  A  writer,  according  to  Twain, 
should  work  three  months  on  a  stretch,  dead  to  every 
thing  but  his  work;  then  loaf  diligently  three  months 
and  go  at  it  again.  Solitary  imprisonment  by  com 
pulsion  was  the  one  perfect  condition  for  perfect  per 
formance.  No  letters,  no  telegrams,  no  bores,  no  re 
sponsibilities,  no  gadding  about,  no  seductive  pleasures 
beckoning  one  way  and  dividing  his  mind. 


LITERARY  DENS  107 

Riley  listened  kindly  to  Twain,  but  soon  learned  by 
experience  that  he  could  not  work  by  rule.  Not  three 
months  at  a  stretch  but  about  three  weeks  was  his 
limit.  "There  is  my  old  friend,  Dickens,"  Riley  would 
say,  "breakfasting  at  eight  o'clock,  after  breakfast, 
answering  letters,  then  writing  until  one  o* clock,  then 
lunch,  then  walk  twelve  miles,  then  dine  at  six,  and 
pass  the  evening  with  friends;  next  day,  same  pro 
gram  ;  I  don't  see  how  he  did  it." 

An  occasion  for  surprise  and  sometimes  concern 
among  friends  was  the  poet's  going  so  long  in  his  den 
without  refreshments.  He  would  steal  away  from  the 
"Dead  Rose"  at  night  to  the  alley  restaurant — the 
patch  of  light  in  the  gloom  back  of  the  Journal  Build 
ing — and  no  one  would  see  him  till  he  came  again  for 
his  lunch  the  next  midnight.  A  few  night  owls  only 
knew  where  to  find  him.  "In  Greenfield,"  said  the 
poet,  "I  emerged  from  'The  Morgue'  after  midnight 
to  babble  with  the  brook  that  curled  through  the  town, 
or,  when  so  inclined,  I  wormed  my  way  to  the  Brandy- 
wine  woods,  where  the  whippoorwills  paused  in  their 
call,  and  the  katydids  hid  away  from  the  smile  of  the 
moon.  In  the  daytime  I  sometimes  walked  forth  when 
there  was  no  outdoor  gaiety  provided  but  the  lazy 
drizzle  of  the  rain.  I  had  a  hunger,  but  it  was  not 
hunger  for  bread." 

Only  those  who  peeped  behind  the  curtain  knew 
when  Riley  partook  of  food.  His  habit  of  secrecy,  ac 
cording  to  Greenfield  companions,  was  a  subject  for 
daily  inquiry.  "The  poet  was  a  kind  of  caliph,"  said 
one ;  "he  dwelt  apart ;  he  did  not  promote  explanations. 
'The  Morgue*  concealed  him  from  the  prying  eyes  of 
public  curiosity.  Sometimes  we  would  ask  him  to 


108  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

walk  with  us.  'No  time/  he  would  reply ;  'have  to  stay 
here  and  sew  my  shroud/  whatever  that  meant.  'If 
they  ask  you  anything  about  me,  tell  them  you  don't 
know/  Daily  he  was  summoned  to  his  task — and  be 
lieve  me,  he  worked.  Often  he  wrote  till  daylight, 
wrote  till  his  fingers  were  like  ice  and  his  brow  like 
fire.  There  was  no  yardstick  for  his  enthusiasm  when 
hinged  to  a  poem.  His  young  existence  leaped  like  a 
hillside  torrent.  Talk  about  his  lack  of  resolution! 
When  he  was  anchored  to  his  table  you  could  no  more 
move  him  than  you  could  move  a  mountain." 

Yet  the  poet  longed  for  friendship  as  seen  in  his 
plaint  to  H.  S.  Taylor: 

The  Morgue,  September  4,  1879. 
Dear  Taylor: 

There's  been  a  two-weeks'  kink  in  my  usually  pro 
lific  fancy  and  I  can't  get  past  it.  Wish  I  could  see 
you  and  get  lulled  again.  Tell  you  what  I  need — 
genial  companionship.  But  I  am  clearly  out  of  gun 
shot  of  it  here.  It  is  getting  awful.  People  all  stop 
talking  as  I  pass  along  the  street  and  stare  at  me 
like  a  "sum"  in  compound  interest.  Can't  get  me 
fixed — nor  I  them,  but  it  is  just  naturally  pulling  me 
down  and  shutting  me  up  like  a  Chinese  lantern,  or  a 
concertina,  that's  better,  and  squeezing  all  the  music 
out  of  me.  I  have  been  trying  to  rest,  but  do  not  be 
lieve  I  am  doing  it.  Write  soon  and  let  me  know  all 
you  are  dreaming  and  doing  for  the  future. 

Your  friend, 

J.  W.  R. 

"A  man  with  imagination/'  said  Riley,  recalling  his 
experience  in  desolate  rooms,  "can  be  supremely  happy 
behind  the  bars  of  a  jail.  Leigh  Hunt  was  such  a 


LITERARY  DENS  109 

man.  Indeed  a  sparsely  furnished  room  is  prefer 
able.  I  remember  watching  Kipling  write  one  day  in 
New  York.  I  found  him  at  work  at  a  little  table.  His 
room  was  rather  mean-looking.  He  was  drawing  a 
picture  of  a  ship  on  a  piece  of  blotting  paper.  He 
was  just  like  an  overgrown  boy.  That  is  the  way  he 
worked — one  minute  playing,  the  next,  writing  lines 
that  smacked  of  genius." 

A  correspondent  to  the  Yankee  Blade  was  certain 
Tennyson  could  write  a  good  poem  on  a  pine  table  in 
the  kitchen,  and  that  Whitcomb  Riley  could  write  one 
on  the  cars.  This  was  a  guess,  yet  it  was  true  that 
Riley  had  written  poetry  on  the  train  between  Indi 
anapolis  and  Greenfield,  so  that  friends  referred  to  the 
Pennsylvania  Accommodation  as  one  of  his  literary 
dens.  Frequently  he  warned  the  brakeman  to  set  him 
off  at  Greenfield.  Writing  thus  irregularly  on  trains 
led  some  critics  to  account,  as  they  thought,  for  im 
perfections  in  his  verse.  It  was  really  not  his  way  to 
write  so  much,  as  to  think  out  poems  on  trains  or 
while  walking  the  streets.  When  the  time  came, 
whether  it  rained,  snowed  or  shone,  he  recorded  them 
regardless  of  surroundings — at  an  office  desk  in  the 
hum  of  business,  in  the  waiting-room  of  a  station,  on 
the  corner  of  an  editor's  table,  or  seated  on  a  bench 
with  a  writing  pad  on  his  knee — it  was  all  the  same 
to  him.  Often  he  was  insensible  to  surroundings. 

There  is  a  glimpse  of  Riley  in  his  Greenfield  den,  his 
"old  catafalque,"  as  he  termed  it,  in  his  "Tale  of  a 
Spider,"  the  story  which  was  begun  in  "The  Morgue" 
and  finished  in  the  "Dead  Rose."  He  seems  to  have 
feasted  and  fattened  on  the  gloom.  "The  greater  por- 


110  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

tion  of  my  time,"  he  writes,  "I  occupy  in  strict  seclu 
sion,  here  at  my  desk — for  only  when  alone  can  I 
conscientiously  indulge  certain  propensities  of  think 
ing  aloud,  talking  to  myself,  leaping  from  my  chair 
occasionally  to  dance  a  new  thought  round  the  room, 
or  to  take  it  in  my  arms,  and  hug  and  love  it  as  I 
would  a  great  fat,  laughing  baby  with  a  bunch  of 
jingling  keys. 

"Then  there  are  times  too  when  worn  with  work, 
and  I  find  my  pen  dabbling  by  the  wayside  in  sluggish 
blots  of  ink,  that  I  delight  to  take  up  the  old  guitar 
which  leans  here  in  the  corner,  and  twang  among  the 
waltzes  that  I  used  to  know,  or  lift  a  most  unlovely 
voice  in  half -forgotten  songs  whose  withered  notes  of 
melody  fall  on  me  like  dead  leaves,  but  whose  crisp 
rustling  still  has  power  to  waken  from  'the  dusty  crypt 
of  darkened  forms  and  faces'  the  glad  convivial  spirits 
that  once  thronged  about  me  in  my  wayward  past,  and 
made  my  young  life  one  long  peal  of  empty  merri 
ment." 

"Hope  you  will  like  this  piece  of  metrical  abandon," 
Riley  would  remark  or  write  to  friends;  "just  copied 
it  from  first  draft.  It  swept  through  'The  Morgue* 
last  night  as  I  sat  coaxing  Fate  for  something  sor 
rowful.  Rare  old  jade!  She  knows  best  what  we 
need.  God  bless  her!" 

Years  after  his  gloom  in  it,  Riley  left  a  memory  of 
"The  Morgue,"  a  weird,  unaccountable  effusion 
(quoted  in  part),  in  which  he  feigns  himself  a 
madman  vibrating  between  deterioration  and  trans 
ports  of  insanity ;  soothed  on  the  one  hand  by  friends 
and  visions  of  light,  and  on  the  other,  welcoming  the 
joy  and  delirium  of  destruction — 


LITERARY  DENS  111 

"Your  letter  was  almost  as  dear  to  me 
As  my  lost  mother  used  to  be !" — 
(This  is  the  way  he  wrote — and  died 
Not  understanding  but  satisfied.) 

"Day  by  day  from  the  window  here 
I  stare  out  where  the  June  is  drear, 
Out  where  the  leaves  on  the  gladdest  trees 
Are  only  trembling  with  agonies. 

"And  all  is  rainy  in  spite  of  the  sun; 
But  the  uppermost  ache  of  my  life  is  done, 
And  I  am  as  glad  as  a  moth  that  flies 
Into  a  great  white  flame  and  dies." 

In  the  main,  however,  the  warmth  of  his  heart 
enabled  the  poet  to  hallow  his  misfortune  as  Leigh 
Hunt  had  done  in  the  jail.  As  he  sang  afterward  in 
"A  Poor  Man's  Wealth,"  he  had  "the  opulence  of 
poverty."  What  a  "wealth  of  silence  and  hope,  of 
ideals  unrealized  and  energies  as  yet  unillumined,"  he 
wrote  in  a  fragment  one  midnight: 

"What  poverty  like  this !  to  laugh  and  sing, 

And  babble  like  a  brook  in  summertime — 
To  circle  round  the  world  on  airy  wing, 

Or  clamber  into  heaven  on  rounds  of  rhyme, 
When  in  the  soul  benignly  lingering, 
There  lives  a  love  unspeakably  sublime." 

The  sorrowful  was  not  the  rule,  although  "The 
Morgue"  was  dismal.  Usually  he  coaxed  the  joyous 
from  Fate — exquisite  music,  the  fruit  of  "an  inward 
light  that  smote  the  eyes  of  his  soul."  Glad  was  the 
poet — and  the  night  knew  why. 

Since  Riley  was  a  poet,  a  human,  Cupid  stole  into 
his  literary  dens.  The  little  god  had  a  way  of  shoot- 


112  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ing  arrows  to  lady  artists  and  writers  of  other  states. 
One  of  his  arrows  reached  Ella  Wheeler  (since  famous 
ly  loved  as  Eller  Wheeler  Wilcox).  She  had  been 
cheered  to  the  echo  by  an  immense  throng  in  Madi 
son,  Wisconsin,  where  she  had  read  a  poem  at  the  re 
union  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee.  Generals  Sheri 
dan  and  Sherman  had  listened  to  it,  both  had  heartily 
participated  in  the  demonstration,  and  the  latter  had 
praised  the  country  girl  for  writing  it.  Each  year 
after  reading  the  account  of  her  literary  debut,  Riley 
became  more  interested  in  her.  In  February,  1880,  he 
began  a  correspondence.  "For  years,"  he  wrote,  "I 
have  been  wanting  to  find  you  that  I  might  tell  you 
how  much  I  like  your  writings — both  prose  and  verse. 
I  remember  an  odd  sketch  of  yours,  which  warmed  me 
through  and  through  with  delight.  I  read  it  to  my 
literary  friends,  till  we  all  in  fancy  gathered  you  in 
and  made  you  one  of  us.  Your  poems  I  like  best  of 
all  you  do,  and  I  am  writing  now  to  thank  you  for 
them,  and  for  all  the  great  good  you  are  doing  for  the 
world — for  everybody  loves  you,  and  God  I  know  will 
make  you  very  glad." 

Replying  in  May  from  her  literary  den,  Miss 
Wheeler  was  not  certain  that  she  had  the  gift  of  song. 
"If  I  have,"  she  wrote,  "I  am  chosen  of  the  gods,  even 
as  you  are,  and  we  go  with  them — you  and  I — up  into 
the  mountain  tops  and  down  into  the  deep  valleys.  I 
thank  Heaven  every  time  I  suffer  and  I  bow  my  head 
with  reverence  every  time  I  am  joyous,  because  I 
know  what  it  all  means.  My  thankfulness  is  un 
utterable.  I  take  all  that  is  sent  me,  knowing  noth 
ing  can  come  to  me  that  is  not  sent  by  my  friends,  the 
gods,  who  know  me  and  love  me  as  their  own." 


LITERARY  DENS  113 

In  June  Riley  was  with  Myron  Reed  on  a  hunting 
trip  in  Wisconsin  and  one  day  called  on  Miss  Wheeler 
in  Milwaukee.  The  call  was  a  disappointment,  par 
ticularly  to  Miss  Wheeler.  On  his  return  to  Indian 
apolis,  he  promptly  wrote  her  from  the  "Dead  Rose." 
"I  am  here/'  the  letter  began,  "at  my  desk  in  my  old 
room.  What  is  it  that  thrills  me  more — in  this  blank 
glare  of  day  with  all  the  air  choked  up  with  dust  and 
heat,  and  no  green  thing  in  sight — but  just  the  sullen 
face  that  glares  back  at  me  from  the  broken  toilet 
glass  bungled  away  here  in  the  corner  of  my  room. 
Wish  I  could  shut  off  this  thinking  business  for  a 
while.  I  shut  you  clean  away  from  me  last  night — I 
would  not  let  you  even  look  over  my  shoulder  as  I  wrote 
— and  wrote — and  wrote.  It  was  a  long  poem  for  me 
to  write,  because  of  late  I  have  been  writing  just  the 
shortest  things ;  and  this  is  over  two  hundred  lines  in 
length — but  she  has  the  blood  in  her,  in  every  syllable." 

The  long  poem  was  the  "South  Wind  and  the  Sun," 
which,  after  a  "process  of  refinement  and  purifica 
tion,"  and  the  elimination  of  three  stanzas,  he  pub 
lished  the  next  year  in  the  Journal.  Eminent  authors 
agree  with  him,  that  it  has  blood  in  every  syllable. 

In  July,  after  spending  two  weeks  in  Greenfield,  he 
wrote  Miss  Wheeler  again.  "I  have  been  endeavor 
ing,"  he  said,  "to  convince  myself  that  old  scenes, 
and  all  that  flummery  was  happiness ;  but  it  would  not 
work.  I  browsed  industriously  and  dipped  in  old 
affairs  that  used  to  thrill,  and  raked  away  among  the 
embers  of  old  loves — not  many,  still  enough  to  plural- 
ize — but  it  was  ghastly  business  at  the  best,  and  not 
one  wounded  sunbeam  of  pure  joy  to  comfort  me  for 
all  my  pains.  Fact  is,  the  happy  past  (old  love- 


114  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

affairs)  is  just  a  juiceless  pulp.  I  am  back  here  now 
in  the  city,  thank  God,  where  work  holds  out  to  me 
wide-open  arms,  and  welcomes  me,  and  wants  me  all 
the  time/' 

Then  followed  a  copy  from  the  first  draft  of  his 
loved  poem,  "A  Life-Lesson,"  which  soon  took  its  place 
in  the  Journal.  Its  plaintive  line,  "There!  little  girl, 
don't  cry!" — the  thread  of  gold  the  Muse  had  saved 
for  the  poem — was  his  own  remark  to  a  little  girl 
who  had  broken  her  doll  on  the  stone  steps  of  a  resi 
dence  in  Anderson. 

In  another  letter  the  poet  hungered  for  woman's 
companionship.  He  was  brimmed  with  an  alpine  reso 
lution,  and  the  blazing  desire  to  make  his  purpose  an 
accomplished  fact.  "I  am  mad  and  famished,"  he 
wrote.  "It  all  seems  so  strange.  I  have  such  brief 
interludes  in  which  to  be  my  real  self — or  selves.  I 
work  so  like  a  steel  automaton ;  tireless,  uncompromis 
ing,  cold,  but  with  such  a  sure-and-certain  sort  of 
crank  at  every  step,  that  if  I  don't  just  break  and  fly 
to  pieces  some  day — I  am  certain  of  success,  that's  all." 

Later  there  were  hints  in  Miss  Wheeler's  letters  of 
'the  "waning  strength  of  her  regard."  She  set  Riley 
speculating  as  to  the  cause.  Love  seemed  to  be  "a 
fickle  thing.  Then  envelopes  began  to  reach  me,"  said 
he,  "with  blue  steam  escaping  from  the  unsoldered 
corners  of  the  lapels.  Soon  my  visions  of  matrimony 
vanished  like  chickens  when  the  mother  hen  sees  a 
hawk's  shadow — and  I  resolved  to  die  unmarried,  un 
wept  and  unsung." 

Miss  Wheeler  had  grave  fears  that  she  would  not 
survive  an  unhappy  marriage.  The  marriage  of  two 
poets  would  be  unhappy.  The  Brownings  had  been 


LITERARY  DENS  115 

happy,  but  the  list  was  altogether  too  small  for  sweet 
anticipations.  "My  first  and  only  encounter  with  the 
Hoosier  Poet,"  she  said  years  after  meeting  him,  "was 
like  that  of  a  canine  and  a  feline.  Mr.  Riley  barked 
in  a  way  which  caused  my  feline  back  to  rise,  and  in 
stead  of  calling  him  by  his  given  name  I  hissed.  I 
wore  a  new  gown,  a  fashionable  dress,  and  my  hair 
was  arranged  in  the  fashion  of  the  day.  He  began  at 
once  to  criticize,  and  was  much  disappointed  in  my 
'frivolous  appearance/  I  praised  dancing.  He  thought 
poets  should  be  above  such  things.  My  first  sight  of 
him  shocked  me.  He  was  very  blond — and  very  ugly. 
I  was  never  attracted  to  blond  men.  His  whole  per 
sonality  was  most  disappointing.  After  his  return  to 
Indianapolis,  we  continued  to  correspond  for  a  while, 
but  at  last  he  wrote  two  disagreeable  letters,  and  I 
promptly  returned  his  with  the  request  that  he  return 
mine.  I  made  it  clear  that  I  did  not  want  posterity  to 
know  that  I  had  wasted  so  much  time  on  an  impossi 
ble  person." 

Prior  to  Riley's  correspondence  with  Miss  Wheeler, 
Cupid  had  penetrated  the  obscurity  of  "The  Morgue" 
— not  an  enchanting  scene  surely;  nevertheless  the 
mischievous  son  of  Venus  paid  the  retreat  a  visit. 
Miss  Louise  Bottsford,  a  young  woman  of  Hoosier 
birth  and  training,  had  been  sufficiently  literary  in 
her  development  to  merit  the  attention  of  eastern  pub 
lications.  She  also  had  been  helpful  to  Riley  in  the 
revision  of  his  verse.  Like  Riley,  she  had  lived  in 
childhood  in  a  log  cabin,  and  its  walls  had  echoed  the 
charms  of  many  a  fairy  tale.  There  had  been  a  strug 
gle  and  poverty,  and  then  sunshine  and  song  had  brok 
en  upon  it.  Three  poems— "Shadowland,"  "Satisfied" 


116  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

and  "Darkness,"  had,  in  Riley's  opinion,  "richly 
merited  the  wide  circulation  they  attained."  There 
was  a  warmth  of  simplicity  in  them  which  he  prized, 
and  "a  dashing  flow  of  merriment  and  quaint  humor 
in  her  prose." 

Thus  a  love  and  correspondence  began,  doomed  to 
an  unhappy  ending,  as  were  all  his  courtships.  His 
"Golden  Girl,"  the  discerning  reader  will  see,  was  a 
composite  of  many  girls,  who  doubtless  would  have 
made  him  a  lovely  wife,  had  she  ever  existed,  and  it 
had  been  his  fortune  to  meet  her. 

In  after  years  Riley  joked  a  great  deal  about  his 
experience  in  the  "Dead  Rose."  "Fortune,"  he  once 
remarked,  "stepped  gingerly  around  the  corner  of  Mar 
ket  Street,  climbed  the  stairs,  and  emptied  her  cornu 
copia  at  my  door.  I  smiled  at  the  contents.  The  bust 
of  Dickens  laughed  hilariously.  And  what  do  you 
suppose  the  cornucopia  contained? — a  bill  for  room 
rent  nineteen  days  overdue — some  worm  candy — a 
bottle  of  Townsend's  Magic  Oil — a  bachelor  button — 
and  the  thread  of  gold  for  a  poem,  'My  First  Spec 
tacles.'  " 

In  the  city  as  in  Greenfield,  Riley  continued  his  work 
in  what  the  world  terms  uncongenial  surroundings — 
and  sometimes  he  thought  they  were  uncongenial.  "My 
poem,  'A  Sleeping  Beauty/  "  he  said,  "was  an  inspira 
tion.  It  was  written  in  the  grand  old  woods, — that  is, 
in  the  grand  old  edge  of  the  woods  near  the  Starch 
Mills,  where  the  atmosphere  was  so  balmy  the  poet 
had  to  wear  a  muzzle  to  properly  appreciate  it.  My 
limpid  fancy  tripped  and  trilled  along  as  airily  as 
Pogue's  Run."  After  a  two-weeks'  illness,  while  re 
cuperating  in  Greenfield,  he  wrote  "Nothin'  To  Say" 


LITERARY  DENS  117 

one  afternoon  while  sitting  by  an  old  hall  table  in  the 
Seminary  Homestead.  Another  time,  he  began  writing 
"Little  Orphant  Annie"  at  the  dinner  table,  and  when 
the  cook  came  to  remove  the  cups  and  saucers  and 
"brush  the  crumbs  away,"  he  climbed  to  the  "Crow's 
Nest"  and  there  finished  what  Time  seems  to  be  say 
ing  is  the  most  popular  poem  for  children  ever  writ 
ten. 

Within  three  years  Riley  wrote  more  than  three 
hundred  poems,  most  of  them  in  the  "Dead  Rose"  and 
"Crow's  Nest" — such  popular  ones  as  "A  Scrawl," 
"Away,"  "The  Clover,"  "The  Brook-Song,"  "Some 
day,"  "The  Days  Gone  By"  and  "The  Orchard  Lands 
of  Long  Ago."  Before  he  wrote  these,  there  was  one 
entitled  "His  Room,"  which,  although  written  in  "The 
Morgue,"  pertained  particularly  to  the  "Crow's  Nest," 
except,  he  said,  that  there  were  no  ivy  leaves  nor  vio 
lets,  nor  any  woven  charms  in  the  carpet.  Home  again 
from  Hoosier  lecture  trips,  from  towns  where  he  had 
stood  "in  festal  halls  a  favored  guest,"  his  affection 
for  the  quietude  of  his  den  found  expression  in  verse — 

"Here  I  am  happy,  and  would  fain 

Forget  the  world  and  all  its  woes; 
So  set  me  to  my  tasks  again, 

Old  Room,  and  lull  me  to  repose: 
And  as  we  glide  adown  the  tide 

Of  dreams,  forever  side  by  side, 
I'll  hold  your  hands  as  lovers  do 

Their  sweethearts'  and  talk  love  to  you." 


CHAPTER  VII 
WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING 

IT  was  many  a  lonesome  mile  Whitcomb  Riley 
traveled  before  he  was  admitted  to  the  magazines, 
a  long  while  before  the  papers  emphasized  his  im 
portance  with  two  columns  on  the  first  page.  In  1878 
he  began  to  send  manuscripts  to  the  Atlantic,  but 
twenty  years  elapsed  before  he  saw  'The  Sermon 
of  the  Rose,"  his  first  poem  in  that  monthly.  Al 
though  there  were  sleepless  nights  and  "the  drip  and 
blur  of  tears,"  and  sometimes  a  fierce  defiance,  and 
once,  as  he  expressed  it,  "the  instinctive  desire  to  give 
battle  in  the  savage  way  of  the  cave  dwellers,"  yet 
in  his  calm  moments  he  accepted  all  philosophically, 
and  sometimes  with  fervid  welcome,  believing  as  he 
wrote  in  the  poem,  that  "whatever  befalls  us  is  divine 
ly  meant."  It  was  a  long,  long  trail  into  the  land  of 
his  Dreams,  and  yet  what  transport  was  his  when  the 
luring  afterwhiles  enveloped  him  with  their  smile — 

"How  sweet  the  sunlight  on  the  garden  wall, 
And  how  sweet  the  sweet  earth  after  the  rain." 

"He  has  seen  the  tearful  words  respectfully  de 
clined,"  said  Myron  Reed,  "and  I  have  grieved  with 
him  over  those  words  in  days  when  there  was  no  flour 
ish  of  trumpets.  But  finally,  by  way  of  Wide-Awake, 
St.  Nicholas,  and  the  backdoor  bric-a-brac  of  the  Cen 
tury,  he  found  himself  inside." 

118 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  119 

Of  a  truth  Riley  had  seen  the  rejection  slip.  He  sel 
dom  heard  the  moan  of  a  turtle  dove  without  remark 
ing,  "Its  tone  is  heartbreaking;  it  must  have  had  a 
manuscript  declined."  For  ten  years,  beginning  with 
1876,  he  was  tenfold  more  familiar  with  "respectfully 
declined"  than  the  desired  "accepted";  and  it  was 
proof  of  his  genius  that  he  could  play  with  the  dis 
heartening  phrase  and  then  smilingly  toss  it  aside,  as 
seen  in  one  of  his  "Kickshaws"  in  the  Kokomo  Trib 
une: 

"I  asked  my  tailor  for  a  suit; 

I  told  him  I  designed 
To  pay  him  in  a  month  or  less — >  • 
He  respectfully  declined. 

"I  asked  my  love  to  the  opera, 

But  beauty  and  song  combined 
Had  not  the  power  to  tempt  her — 
She  respectfully  declined. 

"I  offered  her  my  heart  and  hand, 

I  told  her  I  would  bind 
The  bargain  with  a  cottage — 
She  respectfully  declined. 

"I  sought  relief  in  poetry 

And  felt  somewhat  resigned, 

But  the  editor  could  not  see  it— - 

Twas  respectfully  declined. 

"He  told  me  he  had  old  machines 
And  low-priced  boys  to  grind 
Out  better  poems  than  he  marked — 
'Respectfully  declined.' 


120  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"Oft  in  dreams  I  see  the  Devil 

In  a  cloud  of  fire  enshrined 
As  he  grasps  my  card  and  marks  it — 
'Respectfully  declined/ 

"Then  I  wander  till  I  reach  the  gate 

Of  Heaven  (in  my  mind)  ; 
Saint  Peter  on  my  photo  writes — 
'Respectfully  declined/ 

"Saint  Peter  was  an  editor, 

Leastwise  he  seemed  to  find 
It  very  natural  to  write — 
'Respectfully  declined/ ' 

A  young  writer  once  came  a  long  distance  to  con 
sult  Riley  on  the  prospects  of  recognition.  His  manu 
scripts  had  been  regularly  returned  and  consequently 
he  was  "heartbroken,"  he  said,  "the  most  miserable 
wretch  alive/' 

"How  long  have  you  been  trying?"  asked  Riley. 

"Three  years,"  was  the  answer. 

"My  dear  man/'  said  Riley,  "keep  on  trying;  try 
as  many  years  as  I  did/' 

"As  you  did !"  exclaimed  the  young  man ;  "you  strug 
gle  for  years!79 

"Yes,  sir,  and  I  remember  two  years  that  were  just 
protuberant  with  hopeless  days.  I  had  the  longest 
face  between  Toronto  and  Tehauntepec.  I  tried  one 
magazine  twenty  years — back  came  my  poems  eter 
nally.  I  kept  on.  I  will  break  into  your  sanctum  sanc 
torum,  I  said,  if  I  have  to  prorogue  Parliament.  I 
was  not  a  believer  in  the  theory  that  one  man  does 
his  work  easily  because  the  gods  favor  him  while  an 
other  man  has  to  shift,  stumble  and  hobble  along  with- 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  121 

out  them.  I  had  the  conviction  that  continuous,  un 
flagging  persistence  and  determination  win.  If  you 
are  discouraged  in  three  years  it  is  not  a  hopeful  sign." 
At  the  end  of  twenty  years  Riley  was  testifying  to 
the  truth  of  what  he  wrote  in  "Wait,"  without  know 
ing  why  he  wrote  it,  back  in  those  inglorious  days  in 
"The  Morgue"—- 

"We  know,  0  faltering  heart, 

Thy  need  is  great: 

But  weary  is  the  way  that  leads  to  art, 
And  all  who  journey  there  must  bear  their  part — 
Must  bear  their  part,  and — wait. 

"And  though  with  failing  sight 

You  see  the  gate 

Of  Promise  locked  and  barred,  with  swarthy  Night 
Guarding  the  golden  keys  of  morning-light, — 

Press  bravely  on — and  wait." 

While  he  berated  the  magazines  and  at  times  ex 
pressed  his  impatience  in  violent  terms,  Riley  never 
held  that  poets  were  made  for  them.  The  reverse  was 
the  truth — the  magazines  for  the  poet.  Subsequently 
a  story  was  circulated  that  one  of  the  standard  maga 
zines,  seeing  that  Riley  would  one  day  be  famous,  had 
accepted  one  of  his  poems,  paid  ten  dollars  for  it  and 
kept  it  in  a  vault  years  before  publishing  it.  The  cir 
cumstances  provoked  Eugene  Field  to  ask  whether  any 
American  magazine  had  ever  discovered  a  poet,  and 
whether  any  magazine  had  ever  taken  up  a  worthy 
poet  until  his  reputation  had  been  established  by  the 
newspapers. 

Field,  according  to  Riley,  had  mistaken  the  province 
of  the  magazine.  The  newspapers  had  indeed  estab- 


122  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

lished  Riley's  reputation.  But  that  was  not  enough. 
It  was  up  to  him  to  receive  improvement  from  the 
magazines.  He  would  therefore  "whet  his  sickle  and 
sail  in."  Perhaps  a  little  more  pruning  was  neces 
sary.  The  magazines  would  know  about  that.  For  a 
long  while  he  considered  his  relation  to  the  magazine 
one  of  education.  He  was  resolved  not  to  be  offended 
at  honest  criticism.  "If  you  do  not  like  my  poem,"  he 
wrote  an  editor,  "just  say  so.  You  can  not  hurt  me 
by  finding  fault  with  it.  If  what  you  say  does  not 
agree  with  my  opinion,  I  will  keep  the  poem  and  love 
it  just  the  same;  and  if  your  opinion  is  better,  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  cast  mine  overboard." 

Scarcely  had  the  curtain  risen  on  his  magazine  ven 
tures  when  he  was  confronted  with  the  intolerance  of 
one  section  of  his  country  for  another.  Captain  W.  R. 
Myers  is  authority  for  an  interesting  "speech"  on  the 
subject,  which  Riley  made  one  night  under  a  tree  in 
the  Court  House  yard  at  Anderson,  the  gist  of  which 
was  the  words  of  the  Psalmist:  Promotion  cometh 
neither  from  the  east,  nor  from  the  west,  nor  from 
the  south.  The  public  is  the  judge.  It  putteth  down 
one  and  setteth  up  another.  The  poet's  audience  con 
sisted  of  a  few  friends  including  the  editors  of  the 
local  papers.  Standing  at  the  back  of  a  bench,  in  a 
nervous  attitude,  which  soon  gave  place  to  one  of  de 
liberation  and  force,  he  spoke  in  substance  as  follows : 

It  is  the  prejudice  of  the  editors  against  the  West 
that  forbids  my  name  in  the  magazines,  the  offense 
of  locality,  which,  widened  to  national  proportions, 
will  not  only  threaten  the  production  of  good  literature, 
but  the  existence  of  our  institutions,  as  just  a  few 
years  ago  it  almost  disrupted  our  Union.  Music  suffers 


THE  OLD  JOURNAL  BUILDING,  NORTHEAST  CORNER  OF  MARKET  AND 
PENNSYLVANIA   STREETS,   INDIANAPOLIS 


-^^ 


COVER  DESIGN  FOR  THE  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK  IN  PROSE — "THE  Boss  GIRL' 
Drawn  by  the  poet  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  123 

from  this  offense  as  well  as  literature.  We  are 
told  that  the  drama  simply  does  not  exist  west  of  New 
York  City.  Why  deny  the  drama  to  a  great  center 
of  population  like  Chicago?  Whose  fault  is  this?  Per 
haps  our  own.  And  this  offense  of  locality  is  not  con 
fined  to  one  section.  We  in  the  West  are  as  provincial 
as  they  are  in  New  England.  Here  are  two  big  cities 
in  our  wide  valley  glaring  at  each  other  like  leopards 
in  a  jungle.  If  St.  Louis  is  for  something,  Chicago 
is  against  it.  The  newspapers  of  one  section  sniff 
against  those  of  another.  Right  here  at  home  an  edi 
tor  writes  about  the  villainous  mania  and  extravagant 
mouthings  of  its  esteemed  contemporary.  This  is  not 
only  bad  manners,  it  is  bad  morals.  This  cleavage, 
these  chronic  animosities  between  communities  and 
state  should  disappear.  We  will  never  achieve  great 
ness  by  fostering  the  partisan  and  parochial  spirit.  It 
is  un-American  to  overvalue  ourselves  and  undervalue 
others.  We  destroy  good  in  Indiana  when  we  dep 
recate  and  antagonize  good  in  Ohio.  We  should  visit 
each  other  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  brotherly  love, 
those  days  of  the  backwoods.  If  a  man  lived  twelve 
miles  from  a  pioneer  he  Was  a  neighbor.  Right  here 
within  a  half-mile  range  of  the  Court  House  are  four 
thousand  persons,  but  they  are  not  neighbors.  If  we 
must  have  a  Mason  and  Dixon  Line  running  through 
this  country,  let  it  be  an  equatorial  line  with  sunny 
climes  and  possibilities  of  merit  and  prosperity  on  each 
side  of  it.  One  hemisphere  can  not  exist  without  the 
other.  Man  tries  to  think  otherwise  but  on  every  hand 
Nature  balks  him.  She  shows  by  her  care  that  dif 
ferences  are  not  differences  after  all,  that  all  the  zones 
are  necessary — the  frigid  and  the  torrid,  the  temper- 


124  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ate  and  the  intemperate.  We  journey  far  away  to  see 
crags  and  cataracts.  Every  day  Nature  reminds  us 
that  the  journey  is  not  only  expensive  but  deceptive. 
Out  here  a  mile  from  town  the  moonlight  glorifies 
Kill  Buck  meadows  with  the  same  heavenly  alchemy 
that  she  silvers  a  scene  on  the  prairies  or  in  the 
Rockies.  The  beauty  of  one  place  is  the  beauty  of 
another.  The  good  of  each  is  the  good  of  all.  Our 
perpetuity  as  a  country  depends  on  our  being  indis- 
solubly  united.  In  communion  there  is  strength.  Let 
the  literary  folk  of  the  North  and  the  South,  the  East 
and  the  West,  knoyj  one  another  and  then  they  will 
love  one  another. 

I  don't  know  how  far  I  have  digressed  from  the 
main  road,  Riley  concluded,  but  of  one  thing  I  am  cer 
tain:  When  the  people  of  this  republic  are  linked  to 
one  another  in  heart  as  they  are  linked  to  one  an 
other  in  their  fortunes,  then,  if  not  before,  the  poetry 
of  the  West  will  be  popular  in  the  East. 

Riley  began  to  court  the  favor  of  the  magazines  be 
fore  moving  to  Indianapolis.  One  of  his  first  letters 
was  addressed  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons: 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  January  18,  1878. 
Editor,  Scribner's  Monthly, 
Dear  Sir: 

I  address  you  with  the  faint  hope  that  what  I  offer 
you  may  be  an  acceptable  contribution.  Through  the 
encouragement  of  immediate  friends  and  the  daily 
press,  I  have  been  devoting  my  attention  to  the  study 
of  Poetry.  I  enclose  specimens  and  a  manuscript  for 
your  inspection.  If  you  find  my  work  of  sufficient 
merit  I  could  wish  no  higher  honor  than  to  appear 
before  the  general  public  through  the  medium  of  your 
Magazine. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  125 

The  poem  "Dream"  is  my  latest  production  if  not 
my  best,  and  should  you  find  it  worthy  of  publication 
I  ask  you  to  accept  it  at  whatever  price  you  deem 
proper. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  W.  RlLEY. 

The  "specimens,"  including  "Fame,"  and  "An  Old 
Sweetheart,"  and  the  beautiful  sonnet,  "Sun  and 
Rain,"  were  "respectfully  declined,"  an  instance  of 
indiiference  to  gold  values,  said  Myron  Reed,  which 
had  no  basis  for  pardon  in  this  world  or  the  next. 
Part  of  the  sonnet  the  reader  shall  have  here  as  a 
sample  of  the  poet's  art  at  the  beginning  of  his  maga 
zine  ventures: 

"All  day  the  sun  and  rain  have  been  as  friends, 
Each  vying  with  the  other  which  shall  be 
Most  generous  in  dowering  earth  and  sea 
With  their  glad  wealth,  till  each,  as  it  descends, 
Is  mingled  with  the  other,  where  it  blends 

In  one  warm,  glimmering  mist  that  falls  on  me 
As  once  God's  smile  fell  over  Galilee." 

A  more  persistent  effort  for  eastern  recognition  was 
Riley's  experience  with  the  New  York  Sun.  It  grew 
out  of  his  belief  that  the  newspapers  had  in  their  keep 
ing  the  making  of  a  poet's  fame.  "I  began  writing 
with  some  ambition  about  ten  years  ago,"  he  said  in 
1888.  "My  experience  is  that  writing  poetry  is  not 
an  encouraging  occupation.  Among  distinguished  men 
who  encouraged  me  to  persevere  was  Charles  A. 
Dana." 

It  was  a  great  deal  to  have  the  encouragement  of 
the  ablest  editor  then  living.  Not  always,  according 


126  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

to  Riley,  were  Dana's  opinions  reasonable.  As  was 
said,  "they  were  sometimes  appalling  in  their  ran- 
tankerous  nullification  of  all  the  doctrines  approved  by 
the  common  sense.  But  Dana's  manner  of  expressing 
them  was  perfect,  the  absolute  reflection  of  his  mood." 
Riley  saw  what  others  saw,  that  the  editor  was  an  un 
usual  man  for  liking  and  hating.  Dana  "had  his  gods 
and  his  devils  among  men,  and  they  were  not  always 
selected  according  to  common  rules."  In  a  word,  Riley 
loved  him  because  he  made  his  vast  information  useful 
"down  in  the  arena  of  every-day  life."  The  editor 
sympathized  with  failure  for  he  himself  had  once 
failed  conspicuously.  He  knew  also  that  the  cultivated 
man  is  not  always  the  best  man.  He  once  told  Riley 
of  a  reporter  who  could  not  spell  four  words  correctly 
— but  who  got  the  facts,  who  saw  vividly  the  pic 
turesque,  the  interesting,  the  important  aspect  of 
things.  He  did  his  work  so  well  that  it  was  worth  the 
time  and  attention  of  a  man  who  had  knowledge  of 
grammar  and  spelling  to  rewrite  the  report. 

Here  indeed,  in  Dana,  was  brotherly  assistance  for 
a  man  in  need,  toleration  of  a  poet  who  lacked  the 
attainments  of  the  schools.  Riley  was  a  poor  speller, 
and  often  his  verb  did  not  agree  with  the  subject. 

When  Riley  began  sending  poems  to  the  Sun  in 
1880,  Dana  wrote  him  plainly  that  his  poems  lacked 
dignity,  the  poet  did  himself  great  injustice  by  in 
dulging  so  many  whimsicalities,  when  he  had  within 
him  so  much  of  real  worth.  Riley  should  quit  the  sur 
face  and  dig  for  gold.  "I  was  too  profoundly  im 
pressed  with  my  literary  attainments,"  said  Riley.  "I 
sent  Dana  blooming,  wildwood  verse.  He  pruned  it 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  127 

and  at  first  the  pruning  hurt,  but  afterward  I  saw 
the  benefit.  Dana  brought  me  out  of  the  tall  timber." 

The  eminent  editor  was  certain  that  many  authors 
had  been  puffed  into  oblivion  by  too  much  praise.  "If 
the  young  writer  sets  out  with  the  conceit  that  he  is  a 
prodigy/'  he  wrote,  "his  wreck  and  ruin  are  inevi 
table."  Riley  was  grateful  for  the  warning;  said  it 
"kept  him  from  crowing  on  the  gatepost." 

"When  the  news  of  my  success  in  the  Sun  came  rip 
pling  over  the  Alleghanies,"  said  the  poet,  "I  blushed 
like  a  girl."  Dana's  first  note  was  dated 

New  York,  March  30,  1880. 

The  editor  of  the  Sun  presents  his  compliments  to 
Mr.  J.  W.  Riley  and  proposes  to  publish  his  little  poem 
entitled  "Silence"  at  an  early  day.  The  Sun  will 
always  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  Mr.  Riley. 

Writing  from  the  Sun  office,  May  17,  1880,  Dana 
said,  "There  is  a  great  deal  of  talent  in  your  poems, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  your  efforts  will  finally  bring 
you  the  solid  success  which  alone  is  worth  working 
for.  The  two  small  poems  we  propose  to  publish,  and 
I  enclose  a  check  for  them  and  the  other  pieces  which 
have  already  appeared  in  the  Sun.  'The  Wandering 
Jew*  I  return.  It  lacks  both  originality  of  imagination 
and  finish  of  execution.  'Tom  Johnson's  Quit'  I  do  not 
like  at  all.  It  has  the  radical  defect  of  attempting  to 
joke  with  a  shocking  subject." 

This  was  scorching,  as  was  also  a  letter  a  fortnight 
before,  in  which  the  editor  was  "sorry"  he  did  not  like 
the  poem.  "It  is  not  healthy,"  he  said.  "Why  add 
to  the  morbid  poetry  of  the  world?"  Riley  had  been 


128  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

told  that  Dana  could  "make  things  warm"  for  folks 
when  he  took  a  notion.  Evidently  the  editor  was  not 
selecting  poems  according  to  the  rules  of  weekly 
papers.  Riley  replied  as  follows : 

Mr.  Charles  A.  Dana — 
Dear  Sir: 

Although  surprised  to  have  my  two  poems  pro 
nounced  morbid  and  unhealthful,  I  am  none  the  less 
grateful  for  the  opinion  you  express.  I  admit  that 
ofttimes  in  the  selection  of  themes,  I  seem  unfortu 
nate,  but  I  assure  you  that  my  efforts  are  always 
directed  against  any  unhealthful  tone,  or  touch  of 
morbidness.  Hereafter  I  will  be  still  more  guarded. 
I  incline  naturally  I  think  to  odd  studies,  and  in  that 
peculiar  field  I  am  now  laboring  with  unusual  in 
dustry.  There  is  a  demand  for  such  work  from  the 
western  papers,  a  demand  sufficient  to  assist  me  some 
what  on  a  rather  rugged  path.  I  am  a  young  man 
but  in  earnest  and  must  succeed,  since  I  have  been 
virtually  assured  by  others  that  the  evidence  of  good 
is  in  me  and  I  must  develop  it. 

Again  and  again  I  thank  you  for  your  kindly  ac 
ceptance  of  such  pieces  of  mine  as  you  found  deserv 
ing,  and  hope  that  you  may  often  pick  from  those 
I  send  you  something  of  real  worth. 

I  am  as  ever,  J.  W.  RlLEY. 

As  Dana  grew  more  helpful  Riley  was  emboldened 
to  seek  advice  on  the  "Flying  Islands"  which  had  been 
between  the  hammer  and  the  anvil  in  the  West.  How 
would  it  fare  in  the  East?  Accordingly  the  follow 
ing  letter: 

Charles  A.  Dana,  Esq., 
Dear  Sir : 

Something  over  a  year  ago  I  published  in  one  of 
our  local  papers  the  enclosed  poetical  extravaganza, 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  129 

intending  as  soon  as  favorable  circumstances  per 
mitted  to  offer  it  to  some  good  publisher.  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  the  performance  is  strictly 
and  strikingly  original,  and  although  with  scarcely  a 
hope  that  you  may  have  any  leisure  to  devote  to  an 
examination  of  it,  I  would  value  highly  your  opinion 
regarding  it.  I  am  wholly  uninformed  regarding  the 
measures  of  procedure  for  publication  in  book  form, 
and  as  I  have  no  friends  here  versed  in  such  matters, 
I  apply  to  you  in  my  extremity.  I  can  furnish,  if  re 
quired,  references  from  the  best  known  men  of  my 
state,  as  to  worth  of  character,  industry,  and  local 
literary  standing.  The  work,  as  you  may  readily  per 
ceive,  is  not  an  ambitious  one — but  merely  intended 
to  make  an  odd  and  pleasant  volume  for  the  Holidays 
— so  cast  and  treated  as  to  afford  the  artist  as  well  as 
author  the  best  possible  chance  to  air  his  erratic 
fancies  and  conceits.  If  you  have  no  time  to  bestow 
upon  my  desires,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed. 
Most  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  RlLEY. 

The  Sun,  New  York,  June,  1880. 
Dear  Mr.  Riley: 

I  have  read  your  poem  with  attention.  My  advice 
to  you  is  not  to  publish  it.  Twenty  years  hence,  for 
tune  favoring  you,  you  may  make  a  poem  of  this  kind 
which  will  possess  the  necessary  quality ;  but  this  one 
seems  to  me  much  too  young.  As  for  talent  it  has 
plenty  of  it;  and  yet  it  is  unripe.  Its  wit  is  often 
faulty,  its  idea  imperfectly  worked  out  and  its  taste 
in  some  instances  the  reverse  of  poetical. 
Yours  very  truly, 

CHARLES  A.  DANA. 

About  the  same  time  there  was  a  visitation  from  the 
poet's  home  district.  An  exchange  was  finding  it 
monotonous  to  notice  his  nonsense.  There  should  be 


130  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

a  law  against  it.  "He  is  so  prolific,"  said  the  local 
critic,  "that  it  is  difficult  to  keep  up  with  him.  He 
breaks  out  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  and  evi 
dently  has  the  rhyming  mania  in  its  most  virulent 
stage.  The  wonder  is  not  so  much  that  he  rhymes- 
he  can  not  help  that — but  that  reputable  newspapers 
will  publish  the  twaddle.  He  can  hardly  pay  for 
it  at  so  much  a  line,  and  yet  we  can  not  for  the  life 
of  us  see  how  he  can  get  his  verses  into  the  New  York 
Sun  on  any  other  conditions." 

Newspaper  abuse  seldom  pushed  the  poet  into  a  cor 
ner.  His  relative,  Judge  Hough  of  Greenfield,  said 
that  he  stood  fire  with  the  sang-froid  of  his  grand 
mother,  Margaret  Riley,  whose  composure  was  the  talk 
of  pioneer  neighborhoods.  Riley  "embalmed  the  local 
criticism,"  as  he  said,  and  dismissed  it  from  thought. 
But  he  was  grateful  to  the  Sun: 

Charles  A.  Dana,  Esq. 
Dear  Sir: 

I  ask  you  to  accept  my  warmest  thanks  for  your 
kindness,  and  good  advice  regarding  "The  Flying 
Islands."  I  feel  that  I  owe  you  more  than  mere  grati 
tude  of  written  words,  and  shall  hope  that  some  rare 
future  will  bring  me  within  reach  of  your  friendly 
hand,  that  I  may  thank  you  as  I  most  desire. 
AS  ever  gratefully, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 

Knowing  the  value  of  Dana's  criticism  Riley  advised 
others  to  seek  it.  "The  Sun  is  good  pay,"  he  wrote 
a  friend,  "and  I  wedge  a  poem  in  there  every  once- 
in-a- while.  Don't  be  discouraged  if  at  first  refused. 
Four  poems  have  come  back  to  me  in  succession.  But 
let  me  suggest  that  when  you  offer  the  Sun  anything, 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  131 

let  it  be  thoroughly  wholesome,  warm  and  cheery;  as 
Bob  Ingersoll  would  say, — 'full  of  splendid  human 
ity.'  " 

In  1879  when  Mary  H.  Catherwood  and  Riley  were 
"playing  literature"  in  the  "Whittleford  Letters,"  she 
congratulated  him  on  the  steady  realization  of  his 
dream,  was  thankful  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  see 
the  day  when  the  Little  Town  o'  Tailholt  was  neither 
"big  enough,  show  enough,  wide  enough,  handy 
enough,  nor  good  enough"  for  the  poet;  that,  after  all, 
he  was  finding  railroads,  factories,  theaters,  graded 
streets,  crowds  and  church  steeples  good  company.  A 
magazine  failure  had  brought  her  "pecuniary  distress." 
She  could  not  get  "the  ghost  of  a  laugh  out  of  it."  But 
what  joy  it  was  to  know  that  Riley  did  not  have  "to 
write  for  bread  and  coffee ;  that  he  could  drift  off  into 
the  woods  and  sing  delicious  songs  without  having  to 
calculate  in  the  midst  of  his  poetic  passion  when  they 
would  probably  be  most  available,  and  how  much  they 
would  bring." 

The  contrary  was  the  truth.  Years  passed  and 
still  poems  did  not  pay  for  "bread  and  coffee."  To 
Riley  it  was  a  source  of  mortification  that  he  reached 
his  thirty-third  birthday  without  magazine  recogni 
tion.  He  warned  his  co-workers  on  the  Journal,  when 
they  reminded  him  of  the  milestones  in  his  career, 
that  they  did  so  at  their  peril.  "When  youth  is  melt 
ing  away,"  he  complained,  "the  period  in  which  a 
poet  can  alone  achieve  anything,  the  hours  that  wrap 
their  dismal  wings  around  him  on  his  birthday  are 
above  all  others  the  most  dreadful  and  undesirable." 

To  his  secretary  Riley  once  remarked  that  he  had 
grown  football  hair  a  long  while  before  the  maga- 


132  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

zines  caressed  him.  The  yowl  of  critics  had  been  as 
musical  as  the  howl  of  the  hounds  to  "Coon-dog  Wess." 
Magazine  weather,  he  went  on  smilingly,  is  March 
weather.  1st  to  the  5th,  Snow-storms  and  squally — 
7th  to  10th,  Unusually  high  winds— llth  to  15th, 
Freezing  as  far  south  as  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine" 
—16th  to  20th,  Mild,  soft  weather— 21st  to  26th, 
Cloudy  conditions  with  heavy  rainfall  on  "Fame"  and 
on  "Silence"— 27th  to  31st,  Slush  and  mud,  with  a  vio 
lent  tornado  on  the  "Flying  Islands."  A  trying  season 
is  the  magazine  season.  It  is  full  of  unlucky  days — 
and  woe  to  the  poet  who  is  taken  sick  at  that  time,  for 
he  seldom  recovers. 

It  is  not  just  one  or  a  score  of  disappointments  that 
made  his  hope  of  success  feeble.  The  days,  if  chained 
together,  would  make  weeks  and  months.  He  longed 
for  pecuniary  as  well  as  literary  reward.  "The  old, 
independent,  God-blessed  sense  of  hope  is  strong  upon 
me,"  he  wrote  a  friend.  "Perhaps  I  will  be  victor  after 
all.  Down  on  my  knees  the  past  week  I  have  prayed 
for  it.  The  utter  loneliness  and  dearth  and  need  of 
something  assured  for  the  future  is  the  cause  of  all 
my  many  falterings  and  failures.  When  I  try,  yet 
never  touch  on  the  success  of  the  material  living  which 
others  seem  to  grasp  and  hold  and  have,  why,  then  it 
is  that  I  give  up  entirely,  and  for  a  time  lose  myself 
in  the  folly  of  forgetting.  That  is  the  curse  that  rests 
on  me,  and  follows  me  and  hounds  me  down.  I  would 
rather  be  the  meanest  man  that  carries  mortar  in  a 
hod  than  be  vexed  this  way  with  an  ambition  stout  as 
Death,  and  a  temperament  as  weak  as  water.  If  I 
only  had  a  little  store  and  sold  prunes  and  rusty  hooks 
and  eyes,  how  much  happier  I  would  be,  and  how 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  133 

much  better  it  would  be  for  all  who  yet  hold  me  in 
their  affection  and  esteem." 

Commenting  rather  penitently  at  a  later  period  on 
his  despondency,  Riley  said,  "My  inspiring  genius  that 
week  was  not  the  bust  of  Dickens  on  the  wall ;  it  was 
a  little  crockery  poodle  on  the  floor." 

A  small  circle  in  Indianapolis  were  wont  to  say 
among  themselves  and  sometimes  to  his  friends  that 
magazines  did  not  accept  Riley's  verse  because  it  was 
not  poetry — it  lacked  the  training  of  the  schools  and 
so  forth.  One  remarked,  in  rough  vernacular,  that 
"Riley  should  first  get  the  hayseed  out  of  his  hair 
and  the  slumgullion  off  his  boots  before  mixing  in  so 
ciety."  Myron  Reed,  hearing  of  the  remark,  one  day 
in  the  Journal  Informal  Club  when  Riley  was  absent, 
made  characteristic  reply,  admitting  first  that  the 
Hoosier  Poet  would  to  a  certain  degree  be  benefited 
by  polish.  But  the  attempt  of  the  magazines  to  put 
language  in  the  place  of  spirit  and  feeling  was  play 
ing  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  left  out.  Reed  went  on  to 
say  to  the  gentlemen  that  the  verse-maker  may  pride 
himself  on  language;  he  may  accumulate  synonyms 
and  rhymes;  he  may  build  line  after  line  of  allitera 
tion,  but  the  result  is  not  poetry.  Glittering  rhetoric 
and  word  painting  will  not  do.  Such  verse,  though 
set  between  "peacock  feathers  and  head  and  foot 
pieces  of  the  choicest  scrolling,"  is  not  poetry.  Its 
glitter  is  not  gold. 

"The  magazine  editors  are  largely  responsible  for 
this,"  said  he.  "They  themselves — some  of  them — are 
professional  poets,  but  their  artificial  composition  does 
not  make  a  poem.  It  is  chilly  as  an  iceberg." 

"It  is  a  great  mistake,"  added  Reed  warmly,  "to 


134  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

suppose  that  no  American  can  write  poetry  unless  he 
conforms  to  accepted  standards  and  can  command  ten 
dollars  a  line.  If  I  take  up  land  that  is  absolutely 
worthless  and  make  it  yield  potatoes,  they  are  mine 
— in  the  name  of  my  grandfather  who  marched  with 
Montgomery  to  Quebec,  I  say  they  are  mine — and  I 
am  entitled  to  reward  for  producing  them.  Whitcomb 
Riley  found  here  in  this  Middle  West  a  piece  of  worth 
less  land.  He  made  it  yield  poems,  and  I  say  the  poems 
are  his  and  the  magazines  should  pay  him  for  them." 
Reed  then  read  one  of  Riley's  recent  poems, 
"Shadow  and  Shine": 

"Storms  of  winter,  and  deepening  snows, 

When  will  you  end?  I  said, 
For  the  soul  within  me  was  dumb  with  woes, 

And  my  heart  uncomforted. 
When  will  you  cease,  0  dismal  days? 

When  will  you  set  me  free? 
For  the  frozen  world  and  its  desolate  ways 

Are  all  unloved  of  me. 

"I  waited  long  but  the  answer  came — 

The  kiss  of  the  sunshine  lay 
Warm  as  a  flame  on  the  lips  that  frame 

The  song  in  my  heart  to-day. 
Blossoms  of  summertime  waved  in  the  air 

Glimmers  of  sun  in  the  sea; 
Fair  thoughts  followed  me  everywhere, 

And  the  world  was  dear  to  me." 

"The  magazines  have  kept  Riley  waiting  long 
enough,"  concluded  Reed.  "The  poet  who  wrote  that 
has  seen  the  smile  of  the  night  and  the  dew  and  the 
blue  of  morning  skies.  He  deserves  recognition  and 
remuneration." 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  135 

Meanwhile  scraps  of  encouragement  reached  the 
poet.  "There  is  no  fear  for  this  man's  fame,"  wrote 
the  editor  of  the  Boston  Pilot.  "The  author  of  The 
Shower'  will  grow  to  be  an  American  poet  or  we  know 
nothing  of  the  signs  of  genius." 

Chief  among  those  who  encouraged  him,  in  point 
of  age,  was  the  mother  of  Indiana  verse,  Mrs.  Sarah 
T.  Bolton. 

"Nothing  great  is  lightly  won, 
Nothing  won  is  lost," 

she  had  said  to  Riley  one  day  at  a  Pioneer  Meeting — 
a  sentiment  from  her  popular  poem,  "Paddle  Your 
Own  Canoe."  "I  know  what  it  means  to  wrest  the 
wreath  of  fame  from  the  hand  of  fate,"  she  remarked 
at  another  time.  She  too  had  had  to  wait  for  the 
morning. 

The  poet's  comments  on  the  adverse  conditions  were 
truly  Rileyesque.  Addressing  Ella  Wheeler  in  his 
familiar  way  he  wrote : 

Dear  Filigree: 

I  once  thought  myself  quite  a  poet, 

And  wanting  to  prove  it  and  show  it, 

I  humped  up  one  shoulder 

And  grabbed  a  penholder 

And  sat  down  and  wro-et  and  wro-et. 

With  your  letter  came  one  from  the  Atlantic  re 
turning  the  best  poem  I  ever  wrote.  A  good  letter 
however,  namby-pambying  about  the  way  and  how, 
and  regretting — Bah!  how  I  hate  that  word.  Now  I 
shall  send  the  poem  to  the  Harper's  and  if  they  return 
it  I  shall  frame  it  in  gold  and  keep  it  for  home  use — 


136  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

for  no  medium  but  the  very  loftiest  shall  ever  give  it 
to  the  world.  With  the  Atlantic  letter  too  came  one 
from  St.  Nicholas  accepting  a  contribution.  Hurrah ! 
— just  as  they  all  will  jump  to  do  some  day,  I  swear ! 
Now  I  am  going  to  flounce  down  and  give  Messrs,  old 
Atlantic  a  poem  that  will  paralyze  them,  for  I  want 
them  to  see  at  least  that  I  can  write  them  as  fast  as 
they  can  send  them  back.  I  have  dozens  under  way, 
and  still  buzzing  like  a  hive." 

The  Harper's  returned  the  poem,  "Song  of  Yester 
day,"  for  good  reasons  as  did  the  Atlantic — reasons 
which  the  poet  himself  discovered  before  he  included 
it  in  Rhymes  of  Childhood  a  decade  later.  Radical 
changes  were  made  in  several  stanzas.  Had  William 
Dean  Howells,  then  editor  of  the  Atlantic,  read  the 
improved  lines,  he  doubtless  would  not  have  declined 
the  poem. 

A  long  list  of  magazine  poems,  covering  a  period 
of  ten  years,  beginning  in  1878,  Riley  labeled  "Reveries 
of  a  Rhymer,"  but  the  reveries  were  melancholy  when 
he  saw  the  rejection  slips.  Other  Indiana  writers  had 
manuscripts  rejected,  but  they  accepted  their  fate 
more  philosophically.  If  there  was  moaning  they  kept 
it  from  the  public.  They  did  not  divulge  it  in  news 
paper  interviews  as  Riley  did.  What  seemed  a  moun 
tain  to  him  was  a  hillock  to  them.  Perhaps  the 
thumping  of  fate  was  one  of  the  numerous  ways  Na 
ture  had  of  mellowing  his  heart  and  making  it  im 
pressible,  keeping  it  sensitive  to  the  million  simple 
joys  and  sorrows  around  him. 

Two  or  three  magazines  had  a  way  of  accepting  a 
poem  and  then  delaying  its  publication.  One  sent  a 
check  for  ten  dollars  for  a  poem  which  it  never  pub- 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  137 

lished.  It  was  said  the  poem  was  laid  away  in  a  vault 
and  forgotten.  The  Centwnj  received  "Nothin'  To 
Say"  in  1883,  but  did  not  publish  till  August,  1887. 
A  week  after  finishing  it  Riley  wrote  of  it  to  B.  S. 
Parker: 

Indianapolis,  June  10,  1883. 
Dear  Parker: 

Just  from  Greenfield,  where  an  hour  ago  I  mailed 
you  a  copy  of  a  bit  of  dialect,  "Nothin*  To  Say."  Now 
congratulate  me,  for  here  I  find  waiting  a  check  from 
the  Century  magazine  for  same  poem,  and  a  letter  ac 
companying  it,  and  the  return  of  a  serious  poem.  And 
now  I  am  going  to  double  up  this  same  serious  poem 
and  send  it  to  Harper's,  and  if  they  return  it,  send  it 
to  the  Atlantic,  and  if  they  return  it,  send  it  to  Lippin- 
cott's  and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  It  is  good  and  I 
know  it,  and  if  nobody  on  earth  accepts  it,  I  will  just 
take  it  home  to  my  arms  and  love  it  all  myself. 

As  ever,  J.  W.  RILEY. 

Soon  after  his  poems  began  to  appear  in  standard 
magazines,  Riley's  advice  was  sought  by  young  writ 
ers,  who,  strange  to  say,  believed  he  had  ascended  to 
his  place  at  a  bound.  When  he  was  too  busy  to  write 
the  stranger  an  individual  letter,  he  copied  from  one 
he  kept  on  his  table  for  common  counsel.  "Rail  not 
at  Fortune  because  you  have  lost  your  game,"  it  read. 
"If  the  editor  rejects  your  matter  and  persists  in  so 
doing,  be  patient  and  ask  him  why,  and  then  correct 
what  he  says  is  wrong.  Think  no  less  of  yourself 
but  less  of  your  poem,  if  he  returns  it.  Take  up  the 
rejected  product  and  pitilessly  dig  down  into  its  vitals 
and  find  out  its  secret  ailment,  and  set  about  a  cure. 
Keep  on  shaping  and  filing  and  tinkering  at  it  till 
the  editor  won't  want  to  send  it  back.  And  whatever 


138  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

you  do,  don't  worry.  All  is  well — even  tears,  if  they 
slip  up  on  a  fellow  when  he  is  not  looking,  are  good  to 
see  the  world  through  every  once-in-a-while.  Every 
poet  that  ever  made  fame  or  fortune,  made  it  through 
forcing  down  just  such  opposition  as  you  or  any  com 
ing  poet  must  encounter.  You  must  pass  that  gaunt 
let,  or  you  are  not  a  poet,  and  all  your  would-be  help 
ers  on  earth  can  not  make  you  one.  If  all  young  poets 
knew  Patience  and  her  most  gracious  uses,  there  would 
be  more  older  poets  of  the  proper  dimensions.  Keep 
on  trying — not  to  address  the  editors  but  the  public. 
In  time  you  will  find  the  kind  of  an  editor  I  sought  for 
fifteen  years  before  I  scared  him  up  and  bagged  the 
gentleman.  Keep  on  trying — though  the  critics 
peck  away  at  you  like  rooks  at  a  rotten  apple.  By  and 
by  you  will  be  so  inured  to  the  treatment  that  you 
can  no  longer  appreciate  the  dear  old  pain  it  once 
gave  you.  Keep  on  trying — and  eventually  you  will 
not  want  any  better  fun  than  to  see  some  obstacle  lift 
up  its  ominous  head  in  your  path."  (Wise,  almost 
dramatic  counsel,  but  the  poet  had  not  always  lived  up 
to  it.) 

In  his  letters  Riley  touched  on  questions  that  knock 
for  answer  at  the  heart  of  all  young  writers ;  and  un 
consciously,  and  sometimes  consciously,  he  described 
his  own  exertions  for  literary  prizes.  Thus  he  did 
years  after  his  magazine  success,  in  a  letter  to  Miss 
May  L.  Dodds : 

Dear  Miss  Dodds: 

All  art  work  is  hard  work,  and  no  excess  of  in 
dustry  and  patience  can  go  along  with  the  resolve  to 
do  any  great  thing  right.  There  is  no  easy  way  to  do 
well  Every  master,  in  this  day,  was  a  novice  'way 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MORNING  139 

back  yonder — even  though  beginning,  a  positive 
genius.  And  in  every  instance,  his  line  of  develop 
ment,  I'll  stake  the  soul  o'  me,  owes  more  to  search 
ing,  silent  observation,  like  thought  application,  than 
to  his  native  endowment,  inspiration,  or  whatever  else 
his  rapt  contemporaneous  worshipers  may  choose  to 
call  it.  It  should  be  the  study  of  any  artist  to  whole 
somely  please  the  audience.  Therefore  that  should  be 
the  fundamental  study.  What  does  the  audience 
want?  Always  something  pleasant.  It  does  not 
want  sobs  and  tears  and  agony, — it  does  want  smiles 
and  wholesome  cheer  and  heartening  words — and  God 
knows  it  needs  all  this, — for  in  all  its  vastness  it  is 
made  up  of  just  such  people  as  our  people — your  home 
folks  and  my  home  folks.  So  we  must  do  our  very 
level-best  to  win  and  hold  their  high  esteem  and  favor. 
Very  truly  your  friend, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

Miss  Dodds  was  so  emphatically  encouraged  by  his 
first  letter  and  so  cordial  in  her  appreciation  of  it  that 
the  poet,  a  few  weeks  later,  wrote  her  a  second : 

Dear  Miss  Dodds: 

Positively  you  must  not  be  less  assured  of  your 
work's  real  worth  because  it  is  returned — however 
many  times.  All  writers — however  established — 
suffer  the  same  trial.  So,  just  pocket  all  resentment 
and  keep  on  writing — trying.  It's  wise,  of  course,  to 
most  diligently  review  your  returned  work — and  twist 
and  bore  and  dig  out  what  is  the  matter  with  it. 
Maybe  it's  too  sad — or  hopeless — or  too  light,  or  too 
heavy.  It's  too  something,  or  some  editor  would  take 
it  to  his  heart  of  hearts.  Maybe  its  sole  fault  is  some 
very  trivial  thing  which  no  editor,  however,  has  time 
to  write  you  about.  For  instance,  till  two  or  three 
years  ago,  my  manuscript  invariably  had  warmth 
spelled  "warmpth."  In  all  seriousness,  I  ask  you,  if 
you  were  an  editor  with  your  desk  stacked  full  of 


140  JAMES  WHITCOMB  KILEY 

proffered  contributions,  would  you  read  any  further 
than  "warmpth"  to  convince  yourself  that  there  was 
a  writer  whose  work  had,  of  course,  come  from  his 
hand  and  mind  wholly  unfinished  and  unworthy? 
Every  day  and  hour  there  is  something  to  learn,  and 
we  must  keep  at  it  cheerfully  and  with  the  gladdest 
possible  heart.  Read  all  best  writers  and  permeate 
the  secrets  of  their  success.  Their  success,  be  sure, 
may  be  your  own  most  righteously,  if  you  sound  the 
deep  processes  of  their  art,  and  learn  with  them  to 
master  the  million  little  things  which  in  time  make  up 
the  glorious  aggregate  of  perfection  in  any  art. 

With  all  assurance  of  and  best  wishes  for  your  wel 
fare  every  way,  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

Although  Riley  began  seeking  admission  to  the 
magazines  at  the  beginning  of  his  "Prolific  Decade," 
not  till  its  end  did  he  find  himself  safe  on  the  inside. 
The  period  was  one  of  specters,  dangers,  pleasures, 
music  and  adventures.  He  sought  encouragement  in 
all  directions.  Time  and  again  he  refreshed  himself 
with  a  sentiment  attributed  to  Francis  Marion — -"THE 

HEART  IS  ALL :      WHEN  THAT  IS  INTENSELY  INTERESTED 

A  MAN  CAN  DO  ANYTHING" — the  household  adage, 
which  he  had  in  youth  from  his  mother,  who  remem 
bered  it  as  a  tradition  brought  from  the  Carolinas  by 
the  Marine  family.  The  poet  hoped  when  the  goal 
seemed  inaccessible.  Intensity  of  desire  was  the 
pledge  of  fulfillment.  "I  mean  to  keep  up  vigilantly 
my  longing  for  recognition,"  he  said;  "that  will  aug 
ment  Fate's  favoring  tendencies," — his  simple  words 
for  the  more  rhetorical  language  of  the  English  Pre 
mier,  that  the  man  who  broods  lovingly  and  long  over 
an  idea,  however  wild,  will  find  that  his  dream  is  but 
the  prophecy  of  coming  fate. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

STORY   OF    HIS   PEN    NAMES 

NOT  until  he  had  published  his  first  book  did  the 
poet  abandon  the  use  of  noms  de  plume  and,  as 
he  said,  set  his  full  name  at  the  dashboard  of 
the  whole  endurin'  alphabet.  But  even  after  that  he 
was  fond  of  signing  fictitious  names  to  letters,  such 
as  Doc  Marigold,  Uncle  Sidney,  Brother  Whittleford, 
The  Bad  Haroun,  Troubled  Tom,  Old  E.  Z.  Mark, 
James  Popcorn  Riley,  and  to  literary  editors  James 
Hoosier  Riley,  the  Whitcomb  Poet.  At  other  times, 
particularly  when  chatting  with  friends,  he  was  Truth 
ful  James,  Philiper  Flash,  the  Remarkable  Man,  and 
an  Adjustable  Lunatic. 

J.  Whit  or  Jay  Whit  was  his  first  pseudonym  in 
prose,  affixed  to  sketches  long  since  consigned  to  "the 
phantom  past — stories  too  scant  of  genius  or  talent 
for  publication/'  In  poetry  he  first  signed  himself 
"Edyrn"  to  such  baubles  as  "A  Backward  Look,"  and 
others,  manuscripts  now  stained  by  the  passage  of  half 
a  century.  Riley  was  strangely  fascinated  by  the 
Tennysonian  character.  Eagerly  he  traced  Edyrn's 
history  through  The  Idyls  of  the  King.  The  knight's 
reformation  appealed  to  him  strongly,  doubtless 
through  a  resolution  in  his  own  life,  formed  "in  the 
impressibility  of  youth  and  hope."  Since  he  was  ap 
proaching  his  majority  his  mother  was  especially 

141 


142  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

pleased,  for  she  had  been  much  concerned  about  his 
moral  future.  His  father  was  inclined  to  severity. 
Her  way  was  love.  Evil,  as  Tennyson  had  shown  in 
the  poem,  could  be  subdued.  "Edyrn"  had  wrought 
a  great  work  upon  himself.  One  readily  imagines  the 
glow  of  hope  and  beauty  in  the  mother's  eyes  when 
the  son  read  to  her  this  noble  passage,  and,  after 
reading  it,  how  they  talked  about  the  confusions  of 
wasted  youth  and  why  it  was  that  Love  had  so  often 
to  clasp  hands  with  Grief.  Tennyson  went  on  to  show 
that  man  seldom  does  repent  and  "pick  the  vicious 
quitch  of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him,  and 
make  all  clean  and  plant  himself  afresh."  Riley  was 
not  able,  either  by  "grace  or  will"  to  do  this  at  his 
majority.  Seven  years  elapsed  before  there  was  a 
complete  change  of  front — before  (in  his  own  words) 
he  "began  in  dead  earnest  to  stir  up  the  echoes  and 
make  them  attend  to  business."  Many  times  he  was 
"drowned  in  darkness"  before  he  prayerfully  asked 
himself:  How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead?  But  the 
Tennysonian  lesson  and  the  mother's  love  were  in 
delibly  impressed  on  his  memory. 

"Drop  your  nom  de  plume  that  you  may  thoroughly 
enjoy  the  recompense  of  praise,"  wrote  Riley  to  Cap 
tain  Harris  in  the  beginning  of  his  fame;  yet  he  him 
self  at  the  same  time  was  making  the  most  of  fictitious 
names.  In  1878  Parker  made  public  in  the  Mercury 
some  advice  to  the  author  of  "Flying  Islands."  "We 
wish  softly  but  firmly  to  suggest  to  Riley,"  wrote 
Parker,  "that  certain  tricks,  which  the  public  is  be 
ginning  to  understand,  by  which  he  seeks  to  give  him 
self  notoriety,  must  now  be  abandoned.  He  has  the 
elements  of  the  true  poet  in  him.  He  has  been  very 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  143 

successful  in  illuminating  them,  and  has  made  an 
excellent  start.  Now  he  must  depend  upon  the  merits 
of  what  he  produces  to  sustain  and  increase  the  reputa 
tion  already  achieved.  Tricks  and  subterfuge  will 
serve  him  no  longer,  and  he  must  turn  his  back  upon 
them." 

Riley  did  not  heed  the  advice.  Too  long,  he  thought, 
he  had  been  signing  himself  Jay  Whit  or  J.  W.  Riley. 
Straightway  he  decided  to  be  more  sensational.  Almost 
immediately  he  attributed  productions  to  John  C. 
Walker,  "a  crack-brain  poet,"  thereby  starting  the 
Walker  boom.  It  was  as  if  he  had  set  a  mantrap  for 
the  confusion  of  editors.  Suddenly — click — click — and 
one  by  one  they  were  caught,  among  them  his  dear 
friend  of  the  Mercury,  who  was  pleased  to  observe  that 
"John  C.  Walker  of  the  Kokomo  Tribune  has  much  of 
the  peculiar  flavor  of  Riley,  and  is  certainly  destined  to 
divide  honors  with  him." 

The  Tribune  indorsed  the  Mercury's  opinion :  "Judg 
ing  from  Mr.  Walker's  more  rapid  stride  into  public 
favor  (with  no  disparagement  to  Mr.  Riley,  of  course) , 
it  certainly  argues  that  Walker  is  destined  not  only  to 
prove  Mr.  Riley's  equal,  but  that  he  will  eclipse  him, 
and  that  too  in  the  near  future.  Meantime,  Mr.  Walker 
will  no  doubt  be  highly  gratified  to  be  compared  thus 
favorably  to  Mr.  Riley,  whose  future  is  as  bright  as  a 
June  morning." 

"John  C.  Walker  of  Indianapolis,"  wrote  Bob  Bur- 
dette  in  the  Burlington  Hawkeye,  "is  the  Bret  Harte 
of  the  Hoosier  State.  His  Tribune  poems  have  de 
servedly  attracted  wide  attention,  and  they  are  the 
best  attractions  of  that  very  generally  attractive  jour 
nal."  The  Tribune  was  content  to  add  that  Mr.  Bur- 


144  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

dette  was  correct  except  as  to  the  residence  of  Mr. 
Walker,  who  was  then  "summering  at  his  pretty  home, 
Castle  Nowhere,  in  the  vicinity  of  Parts  Unknown." 

"John  C.  Walker"  soon  became  the  popular  poet  of 
the  Tribune,  and  the  occasion  of  considerable  anxiety 
in  the  public  mind.  As  an  exchange  had  it,  "He  is 
bothering  the  literary  people  of  our  city  more  than 
the  strike.  Everybody  likes  his  poems,  but  no  one  can 
establish  his  identity."  A  lyceum  bureau,  with  Riley's 
name  already  on  its  list,  wrote  the  Tribune  to  secure 
"Walker"  for  a  lecture  tour.  The  opinion  prevailed 
outside  Indianapolis  that  "Walker"  lived  in  that  city. 
The  directory  listed  but  two  men  of  that  name,  and 
neither  had  ever  been  suspected  of  poetic  abilities. 
The  Indianapolis  Herald  was  complimented,  hoped  the 
surmise  would  prove  true,  wanted  to  coax  a  contribu 
tion  from  the  poet  when  the  weather  grew  cooler. 
"We  will  wager  a  year's  subscription,"  said  the  Misha- 
waka  Enterprise,  "that  John  C.  Walker  is  none  other 
than  J.  W.  Riley  in  disguise.  We  can  not  prove  it, 
but  if  Riley  did  not  write  'Romancin' '  and  'Tom  John 
son's  Quit/  he  ought  to  have  done  so.  Moreover,  the 
poet  of  the  Poetical  Gymnastics  in  the  Indianapolis 
Herald  has  a  very  Riley-ish  rhythm,  and  if  he  too  is 
not  our  friend  J.  W.,  we  should  like  mightily  to  know 
who  the  author  is.  We  call  upon  both  papers  to  rise 
and  confess,  and  quiet  the  growing  curiosity  that  pre 
vails  throughout  the  state." 

Public  curiosity  was  soon  quieted.  In  1879  the  sym 
pathies  of  Herald  readers  were  touched  by  the  poem, 
"Hope,"  which  appeared  mysteriously  in  the  "Gym 
nastic"  column  in  September: 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  145 

"Hope,  bending  o'er  me  one  time,  snowed  the  flakes 

Of  her  white  touches  on  my  folded  sight, 
And  whispered,  half  rebukingly,  'What  makes 
My  little  girl  so  sorrowful  to-night?' 

"0  scarce  did  I  unclasp  my  lids,  or  lift 

Their  tear-glued  fringes,  as  with  blind  embrace 
I  caught  within  my  arms  the  mother-gift, 
And  with  wild  kisses  dappled  all  her  face. 

"That  was  a  baby  dream  of  long  ago: 

My  fate  is  fanged  with  frost,  and  tongued  with 

flame: 

My  woman-soul,  chased  helpless  through  the  snow, 
Stumbles  and  staggers  on  without  an  aim. 

"And  yet,  here  in  my  agony,  sometimes 

A  faint  voice  reaches  down  from  some  far  height, 
And  whispers  through  a  glamouring  of  rhymes, — 
'What  makes  my  little  girl  so  sad  to-night?'  " 

One  memorable  line  revealed  the  mystery — "My  fate 
is  fanged  with  frost  and  tongued  with  flame."  "There 
is  but  one  genius  in  the  state/'  remarked  Myron  Reed, 
"who  could  write  that  line,  and  he  was  born  in  Green 
field." 

Thus  was  established  "Walker's"  identity  and  the 
veil  lifted  from  "Poetical  Gymnastics."  Friends  not 
only  discovered  the  real  authorship  of  "Hope,"  but  a 
more  important  fact,  that  the  tendrils  of  its  author's 
love  were  reaching  out  to  the  fallen  sons  and  daughters 
of  men.  Concerning  "Hope,"  Riley  wrote  a  friend  as 
follows:  "You  like  my  poetry,  I  remember.  As  I 
have  had  a  rhythmical  attack  to-day — nothing  serious, 
but  just  a  trifling  vigor — I  send  you  the  best  defined 


146  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

symptom  of  my  affliction,  hoping  you  may  find  in  it 
material  for  a  smile."  It  was  true  that  smiles  pre 
dominated  in  Riley's  verse,  but  in  "Hope"  friends 
found  cause  for  tears.  A  similar  poem,  "The  Ban," 
was  written  about  the  same  time,  and  later  awakened 
the  sympathies  of  Journal  readers. 

When  it  was  publicly  known  that  Riley  was  the  man 
behind  the  poems,  he  received  some  more  advice.  Both 
friends  and  strangers  were  concerned.  "You  make  a 
great  mistake,"  wrote  one  from  Illinois,  "in  using  two 
signatures.  Do  you  not  see  that  this  robs  you  of  half 
your  fame?"  "Shed  your  nom  de  plume,"  wrote  an 
other,  "and  shed  it  soon.  Sign  your  own  name,  and 
don't  let  your  laurels  go  sailing  round  on  eddying 
winds." 

He  signed  his  name  a  year  or  two  and  then  again 
grew  restless.  "I  must  improve  the  shining  hours,"  he 
joked  merrily  one  day  in  May,  1882, 

"  'New  ways  I  must  attempt,  my  groveling  name 
To  raise  aloft,  and  wing  my  flight  to  fame/ ' 

Within  a  month  he  was  galloping  like  a  gamester 
before  public  curiosity  as  "Benjamin  F.  Johnson  of 
Boone."  In  a  letter  to  Roselind  Jones,  he  told  why  he 
inclined  toward  the  unconventional.  He  would  have 
her  know  that  the  hours  were  twanging  and  tingling — 
poems  were  leaping  and  revelling  through  his  veins. 
He  was  producing  at  the  rate  of  two  a  day.  "Years 
ago,"  he  went  on,  "I  received  a  letter  from  J.  T.  Trow- 
bridge.  I  was  then,  as  you  are  now,  writing  without 
reward,  but  hungrier  a  thousand  times  for  some  crumb 
of  pecuniary  recompense  for  my  work.  Trowbridge 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  147 

said  in  order  to  make  poetry  marketable  in  this  day 
and  age,  it  must  be  a  part  of  it — that  is,  it  must  pos 
sess  the  qualities  of  the  great  Present — dash,  brilliancy, 
strength,  originality — and  always  a  marked  indi 
viduality  of  its  own — a  striking  something  that  would 
stamp  it  from  the  ordinary.  These  are  not  his  words, 
but  the  meaning  of  them  as  nearly  as  I  can  give  it, 
after  the  constant  endeavor  of  years  to  follow  his  ad 
vice.  Then  it  was  not  long  till  some  hint  of  real  suc 
cess  came  dawning — not  in  the  East,  however,  where 
naturally  one  looks  for  dawn,  but  here  in  the  West, 
where  are  so  many  papers  seemingly  eager  to  advance 
and  lend  assistance  to  the  poor,  bedrabbled  strugglers 
in  the  ever-standing  army  of  poets,  jingle-ringers,  and 
verse  carpenters.  Since  then  I  have  been  steadily  gain 
ing  until  now — with  the  exception  of  one  magazine 
and  paper  of  the  East — I  have  more  engagements  for 
verse  alone  here  in  my  western  home  than  I  can 
creditably  fill — the  pay  not  much,  but  still  enough  to 
humor  some  extravagances,  and  still  increasing." 

To  Riley,  on  entering  the  profession  of  letters,  the 
field  seemed  crowded.  There  were  so  many  writers 
there  could  not  be  room  for  them  all!  The  call  came 
to  him  to  make  room  for  one  more — room  for  himself. 
He  was  sure  that  he  could  not  do  this  without  a  strong 
and  honest  consciousness  of  worth,  and  that  he  must 
always  emphasize  his  belief  in  himself  in  his  attitude 
toward  the  public.  The  public  might  call  it  egotism, 
yet  the  more  he  manifested  it  the  sooner  he  "would 
shake  hands  with  Success."  In  order  to  soften  the 
offense  of  egotism  Riley  sought,  by  disguising  their 
authorship,  to  distribute  his  wares  widely  and  quickly. 
He  thus  circulated  a  great  number  of  poems  in  a 


148  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

limited  time,  won  the  public's  approval,  and  at  the 
same  time  avoided  the  danger  of  having  his  name  too 
often  in  print.  He  also  wanted  to  make  clear  to  the 
public  that  he  drew  his  inspiration  from  the  scenes  of 
every-day  life.  The  public  would  love  poetry,  he  be 
lieved,  if  it  came  to  them  in  the  natural  idiom  of  a 
writer  in  whom  cultivation  had  not  suffocated  the 
natural  local  sentiment,  the  frank,  warm-heartedness 
of  rural  neighbors.  The  pathos,  humor,  and  philosophy 
of  that  life  would  be  more  effective  when  clad  in 
homely  garb. 

A  short  while  before  he  began  writing  the  Boone 
County  Poems,  Riley  had  called  on  Longfellow  in  Cam 
bridge,  who  had  previously  assured  him  of  the  genu 
ineness  of  his  Hoosier  dialect  verse.  There  was  no 
rich  nor  poor,  no  high  nor  low  in  poetry.  "We  are 
all  of  one  common  family,"  said  Longfellow — and 
straightway  Riley  determined  to  verify,  in  his  humble 
way,  what  his  host  had  said.  There  was  poetry  in  the 
tender  thought  beneath  the  veil  of  rustic  phrase,  and 
the  public  should  recognize  it.  The  personality  of  its 
author,  whoever  he  might  be,  would  become  vividly 
interesting  and  an  object  of  admiration  and  affection. 
Thus,  when  the  real  author  should  become  known,  his 
reputation  would  be  widened. 

"Johnson  of  Boone  has  a  claim  on  our  respect,"  said 
Riley  in  an  interview,  "because  he  is  true  to  nature. 
I  do  not  believe  in  dressing  up  nature.  Nature  is  good 
enough  for  its  Creator, — it  is  good  enough  for  me.  To 
me  the  man  Johnson  is  a  living  figure.  I  know  what 
he  has  read.  People  seem  to  think  that  if  a  man  is 
out  of  plumb  in  his  language,  he  is  likewise  in  his 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  149 

morals.  Now  the  Old  Man  looks  queer,  I  admit.  His 
clothes  do  not  fit  him.  He  is  bent  and  awkward.  But 
that  does  not  prevent  his  having  a  fine  head  and  deep 
and  tender  eyes,  and  a  soul  in  him  you  can  recom 
mend." 

A  further  reason  for  using  the  pseudonym  was  the 
delight  Riley  derived  from  doing  things  in  disguise. 
While  the  public  was  guessing,  he  could  laugh  in  his 
sleeve.  "You  see,"  he  remarked  in  extenuation  of  his 
whim,  "I  was  not  yet  done  with  fooling.  I  was  still 
afraid  of  my  own  name."  He  showed  a  curious  liking 
for  the  genial  old  farmer  of  Boone.  The  wildwood 
verse  of  his  neighborly  poet,  his  rustic  man  of  straw, 
seemed  to  please  him  better  than  that  he  wrote  over 
his  own  signature.  Indeed,  he  indulged  the  disguise 
to  such  a  degree  that  it  became  vastly  more  to  him 
than  a  fiction,  just  as,  in  his  fancy,  he  had  always  at 
his  side  when  writing  poems  for  children,  the  Lad  of 
Used-To-Be,  who  had  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  in 
boyhood. 

"It  was  a  dim,  chill,  loveless  afternoon  in  the  late 
fall  of  'eighty-two,"  Riley  wrote  in  his  sketch  entitled 
"A  Caller  From  Boone,"  "when  I  first  saw  Benj.  F. 
Johnson.  From  time  to  time  the  daily  paper  on  which 
I  worked  had  been  receiving,  among  the  general  liter 
ary  driftage  of  amateur  essayists,  poets  and  sketch- 
writers,  some  conceits  in  verse  that  struck  the  editorial 
head  as  decidedly  novel;  and,  as  they  were  evidently 
the  production  of  an  unlettered  man,  and  an  old  man, 
and  a  farmer  at  that,  they  were  usually  spared  the 
waste-basket,  and  preserved — not  for  publication,  but 
to  pass  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  members  of  the 


150  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

staff  as  simply  quaint  and  mirth-provoking  specimens 
of  the  verdancy  of  both  the  venerable  author  and  the 
Muse  inspiring  him." 

It  was  a  somber  afternoon,  Riley  goes  on  to  say  in 
the  sketch,  when  the  Old  Man  of  sixty-five  entered  the 
Journal  sanctum.  He  had  the  most  cheery  and  whole 
some  expression  in  his  face  and  eye  that  the  poet  had 
ever  seen.  He  wore  a  low-crowned,  broad-brimmed 
felt  hat  on  his  broad,  bronzed  brow,  and  an  old-styled 
frock-coat,  but  a  clean  white  shirt  and  collar  of  one 
piece,  with  a  string-tie  and  double  bow  beneath  a  long 
white  beard.  Thus  the  farmer  from  Boone  introduced 
himself,  having  come  to  town  to  consult  "members  of 
the  staff"  about  the  poems  he  had  been  contributing 
to  the  Journal. 

In  his  introductory  note  to  the  Homestead  Edition 
of  his  works,  Riley  expressed  himself  finely.  "No 
further  word  seems  due  or  pertinent,"  he  wrote, 
"unless  it  be  to  emphasize  the  strictly  conscientious 
intent  of  the  real  writer  to  be  lost  in  the  personality 
of  the  supposed  old  Hoosier  author,  Benj.  F.  Johnson. 
The  generous  reader  is  fervently  invoked  to  regard 
the  verse-product  herein  not  only  as  the  work  of  the 
old  man's  mand,  but  as  the  patient  labor  of  his  un 
skilled  hand  and  pen." 

The  Johnson  Poems,  as  readers  of  the  Indianapolis 
Journal  (where  they  first  appeared)  came  to  know 
and  talk  about  them,  "were  so  subtle  in  their  grasp 
of  character,"  it  has  been  aptly  said,  "so  artful  in 
their  artlessness,  so  brimful  of  the  actual  flavor  and 
savor  of  the  soil,  that  they  fooled  even  members  of  the 
Journal  staff,  and  they,  like  everybody  else,  supposed 
that  the  poems  really  came  from  some  rural  philoso- 


J 


TlxeHoosierPoet-Humorict 

READING! 


THE  POET  IN  1886,  THE  YEAR  HE  FIRST  INCLUDED  "LITTLE  ORPHAN  T  ANNIE' 
IN  His  PUBLIC  READINGS 


1 


A  BOYHOOD  MEMORY,  THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE  IN  BRANDYWINE 

CREEK -1860 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  151 

pher,  some  gnarled  old  farmer,  in  whose  secret  heart 
the  sap  of  ancient  summers  was  still  astir.  They  were 
full  of  the  homeliest  similes,  and  the  meter  was  as 
ragged  as  the  sleave  of  care,  but  they  contained 
unquestionably  the  touch  of  nature  that  makes  the 
members  of  the  human  family  love  one  another." 

It  was  not  quite  true  that  the  poems  fooled  every 
body.  A  few  discerning  ones,  such  as  Robert  Burdette 
and  Myron  Reed,  knew  the  Little  Man  behind  the 
curtain.  "Glad  to  hear  from  you,"  wrote  Burdette 
from  his  country  home  in  Pennsylvania ;  "glad  to  read 
Mr.  Johnson's  poems ;  glad  to  know  at  the  second  line 
of  The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole'  who  Mr.  Johnson  is.  Wish 
you  could  run  down  to  this  farm  a  little  while.  I  am 
speckled  as  a  railroad  restaurant  cracker.1' 

The  poem  was  printed  in  the  Journal,  June  17,  1882, 
under  the  caption,  "A  Boone  County  Pastoral,"  with 
editorial  comment  as  follows: 

Benj.  F.  Johnson  of  Boone  County,  who  considers 
the  Journal  a  "yerry  valubul"  newspaper,  writes  to 
inclose  us  an  original  poem,  desiring  that  we  kindly 
accept  it  for  publication,  as  "many  neghbers  and 
friends  is  asking  him  to  have  same  struck  off." 

Mr.  Johnson  thoughtfully  informs  us  that  he  is  "no 
edjucated  man,"  but  that  he  has  "from  childhood  up 
till  old  enugh  to  vote,  always  wrote  more  or  less 
poetry,  as  many  of  an  album  in  the  neghberhood  can 
testify."  Again  he  says  that  he  writes  "from  the 
heart  out" ;  and  there  is  a  touch  of  genuine  pathos  in 
the  frank  avowal,  "There  is  times  when  I  write  the 
tears  rolls  down  my  cheeks." 

In  all  sincerity,  Mr.  Johnson,  we  are  glad  to  publish 
the  poem  you  send,  and  just  as  you  have  written  it. 
That  is  its  greatest  charm.  Its  very  defects  compose 
its  excellence.  You  need  no  better  education  than  the 


152  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

one  from  which  emanates  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole." 
It  is  real  poetry,  and  all  the  more  tender  and  lovable 
for  the  unquestionable  evidence  it  bears  of  having 
been  written  "from  the  heart  out."  The  only  thing 
we  find  to  criticize  at  all,  relative  to  the  poem,  is  your 
closing  statement  to  the  effect  that  "it  was  wrote  to 
go  to  the  tune  of  'The  Captain  With  His  Whiskers !' ' 
You  should  not  have  told  us  that,  0  Rare  Ben  Johnson ! 

Neither  admirers  nor  adverse  critics  of  "Johnson's" 
contributions  suffered  the  grass  to  grow  under  their 
feet.  Early  friends  were  certain  they  recognized  in 
the  "sturdy  old  myth  of  Boone"  a  neighborhood  boy, 
who  once  lived  in  Greenfield.  Boone  County  sought 
diligently  for  Rare  Ben  Johnson,  but  found  no  one  of 
the  name  in  that  "neck  of  the  woods."  Echoes  of  the 
poems  came  from  Ohio  and  New  England.  A  Harvard 
professor  was  cured  of  the  blues  after  reading  them. 
Two  factions  rose  up  in  a  western  college  town,  one 
claiming  that  Benj.  F.  Johnson  was  the  real  writer 
and  "James  Whitcomb  Riley"  his  pseudonym.  Editors 
grew  uneasy  for  Riley's  fame,  saying  that  "Johnson  of 
Boone"  threatened  to  excel  Riley  as  the  poet  genius  of 
Indiana.  One  writer,  a  Boone  County  pedagogue,  pro 
nounced  the  pastoral  "a  piece  of  dialect  drivel," — a 
criticism  considerably  at  variance  with  Professor 
Henry  A.  Beers,  who  finds  in  "the  quaint,  simple, 
innocent  Hoosier  farmer,  Benjamin  F.  Johnson,  a  more 
convincing  person  than  Lowell's  Hosea  Biglow."  The 
Boone  County  critic,  bursting  with  local  pride,  was 
certain  his  region  had  been  "grossly  outraged."  "Evi 
dently,"  he  said,  "the  Journal  has  been  imposed  upon 
by  some  designing  youth,  who  contemplates  breaking 
out  as  a  dialect  poet,  and  is  merely  feeling  the  pulse 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  153 

of  the  public  and  testing  the  credulity  and  patience  of 
editors  before  he  appears  full-fledged  and  frightful 
over  his  own  name." 

As  the  lyrical  contributions  continued  to  flow  into 
the  Journal  office  from  Boone  County,  Riley  increased 
the  confusion  among  the  exchanges  by  giving  his 
opinion  of  Mr.  Johnson's  poetic  value,  sometimes  an 
unfavorable  one.  Although  the  county  poet  was  "by 
no  means  a  man  of  learning  or  profound  literary 
attainments,"  Riley  was  always  glad  to  receive  letters 
from  him,  always  charmed  at  the  "delicious  glimpse" 
the  Old  Man  gave  of  "his  inspiration,  modes  of  study, 
home  life  and  surroundings."  One  exchange  resented 
Riley's  unfavorable  comments.  It  was  evident  that 
"Johnson  of  Boone"  lacked  education,  but  it  was  con 
temptible  in  the  Journal  to  hold  up  his  imperfections 
to  ridicule.  "Johnson"  had  the  soul  of  a  poet,  and  had 
the  Journal  corrected  the  lapses  in  grammar  and  spell 
ing,  his  poems  would  not  suffer  in  comparison  with 
those  of  Riley,  the  Journal's  poet.  "And  that  editor," 
said  Robert  Burdette,  "did  actually  take  'The  Old 
Swimmin'-Hole'  and  polish  it  and  varnish  it,  set  it  up 
in  good  English  in  his  weekly  to  show  how  fine  the 
poem  looked  in  custom-made  clothes.  As  if  one  should 
put  a  mansard  roof  and  a  bay  window  on  an  old  log 
cabin,  tear  down  the  stick  chimney,  brick  up  the  fire 
place  and  put  in  a  register,  tear  the  'chinkin' '  out  of 
the  logs,  tear  away  the  trumpet  vine  and  honeysuckle, 
rough-coat  it,  paint  it  white  and  put  on  bright  green 
shutters  and  say,  There  now,  doesn't  it  look  too  rustic 
and  romantic  for  anything?' " 

Meanwhile  "Johnson  of  Boone"  kept  on  "peppering" 
the  Journal  office  with  his  contributions,  kept  on  prov- 


154  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ing  that  he,  no  matter  how  ungrammatically  he  wrote, 
had  a  message  for  the  people  because  he  had  lived. 
Occasionally  he  accompanied  a  poem  with  a  letter. 
"All  nature,"  he  once  wrote,  "was  in  tune  day  before 
yesterday  when  the  Journal  came  to  hand.  It  had 
ben  a-rainin'  hard  fer  some  days,  but  that  morning 
opened  up  clear  as  a  whistle.  No  clouds  was  in  the 
skies,  and  the  air  was  bammy  with  the  warm  sunshine 
and  the  wet  smell  of  the  earth  and  the  locus-blossoms 
and  the  flowers  and  pennyroil  and  boneset.  I  got  up, 
the  first  one  about  the  place,  and  went  forth  to  the 
pleasant  fields.  I  fed  the  stock  with  lavish  hand,  and 
wortered  them  in  merry  glee;  they  was  no  bird  in  all 
the  land  no  happier  than  me.  I  hev  just  wrote  a  verse 
of  poetry  in  this  letter.  See  if  you  can  find  it." 

The  Old  Man  was  well  aware  of  his  "own  uneduca- 
tion,"  but  that  was  no  reason  why  "the  feelings  of 
the  sole"  should  be  "stunted  in  thair  growth" : 

"Ef  I  could  sing — sweet  and  low- — 

And  my  tongue 
Could  twitter,  don't  you  know, — 

Ez  I  sung 

Of  the  Summer-time,  'y  Jings! 

All  the  words  and  birds  and  things 

That  kin  warble,  and  hes  wings, 

Would  jes'  swear 

And  declare 
That  they  never  heerd  sich  singin'  anywhere !" 

When,  late  in  August,  "Johnson  of  Boone"  sent  his 
poem,  "My  Old  Friend,  William  Leachman,"  to  the 
Journal,  in  which  he  referred  to  the  old  tavern, 
"Travelers'  Rest,"  and  the  "Counterfitters'  Nest,"  and 
the  stage-coach  and  the  old  Plank  Road,  the  author- 


STORY  OF  HIS  PEN  NAMES  155 

ship  of  the  poems  was  disclosed  and  the  Hancock 
Democrat  announced  definitely  that  they  were  "from 
the  pen  of  our  young  friend  and  poet,  James  W.  Riley." 
It  might  have  added  that  he  also  was  the  author  of 
the  prose  explanations. 

There  being  nothing  left  but  confession  (Riley  hav 
ing  accomplished  his  purpose),  the  Journal  promptly 
printed  "The  Clover,"  the  last  poem  in  the  "Johnson" 
series,  with  the  following  editorial  comment : 

The  Journal  prints  this  morning  the  twelfth  and 
last  of  the  poems  purporting  to  be  by  "Benj.  F.  John 
son  of  Boone  County."  This  author  is  Mr.  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  whose  original  purpose  was  to  write 
a  series  of  twelve,  giving  them  the  nominal  author 
ship  he  did  in  order  the  better  to  carry  out  his  dialectic 
idea.  How  well  the  assumption  has  succeeded  the 
country  knows.  Mr.  Riley  has  written  nothing  among 
all  his  productions  that  has  had  so  generous  reception 
and  wide  reading  as  these  poems.  Those  who  have 
looked  to  the  Saturday  Journal  for  Benj.  F.  Johnson's 
quaint  but  truly  poetic  contributions,  full  of  homely 
pictures  and  contented  philosophy  will  miss  them  from 
our  columns,  but  they  will  be  repaid  with  other  liter 
ary  work  from  Mr.  Riley's  muse. 

Lastly,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  was  pleased  to  say  in 
his  paper,  the  Boston  Pilot,  that  "a  new  name  has 
recently  appeared  among  Western  poets,  that  of  'Benj. 
F.  Johnson,  of  Boone  County,  Indiana/  Several  of  his 
humorous  and  pathetic  dialect  poems  have  appeared 
in  our  paper.  It  now  appears  that  this  was  a  name 
assumed  by  a  young  poet  already  well  known  in  an 
other  field,  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  We  con 
gratulate  him  on  the  strength  which  enabled  him  to 


156  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

win  for  two  names  a  reputation  that  would  satisfy 
many  writers  for  one." 

Thus  the  Hoosier  Poet  forsook  his  most  popular 
nom  de  plume.  He  had  been  "given  to  this  sort  of 
thing"  from  the  year  he  "discovered"  the  Poe  Poem 
on  the  fly  leaf  of  the  old  dictionary;  never  had  been 
quite  content  to  trust  his  own  name ;  to  hazard  his  own 
fame.  Whether  his  whim  was  a  gracious  fault  is  of 
little  moment  now.  Only  a  few  years  passed  before 
critics  uniformly  indorsed  the  judgment  of  the  masses, 
as  voiced  by  Newton  Matthews,  when  Riley  gave  the 
"Benj.  F.  Johnson"  poems  permanent  form  in  Negh- 
borly  Poems : 

"All  hail  Ben  Johnson  of  Boone, 

May  the  shade  of  him  never  grow  less, — 
May  his  fiddle  be  ever  in  tune, 

To  answer  our  hearts  in  distress ; 
May  the  lips  of  Dame  Fortune  still  press 

His  mouth  warm  as  roses  in  June, 
And  Fame,  with  old-fashioned  caress 

Still  fondle  Ben  Johnson  of  Boone." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HIS  FIRST  BOOK 

IN  the  summer  of  1882  the  "Johnson  poems"  were 
referred  to,  if  not  endorsed  by,  the  Republican 
State  Convention  when  one  of  the  nominees  was 
called  on  for  a  speech.  He  was  a  corpulent  gentleman, 
dressed  in  a  navy  blue  suit,  with  tight-fitting  trousers 
and  swallow-tailed  coat,  and  when  he  came  rolling  to 
the  front  he  said:  "I  desire  to  thank  this  convention 
for  the  distinguished  honor  conferred  upon  me.  You 
will  observe,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  not  built  for  run 
ning,  but  I  hope  to  be  able  to  travel  fast  enough  to 
see  many  of  you  in  your  homes  this  fall,  and  keep  up 
with  the  Democratic  funeral.  We'll  win  at  the  election 
— we'll  get  there — 'When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin 
and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock.' "  (Roars  of  laughter 
and  applause.) 

Obviously  the  delegates  and  the  spectators  had  been 
reading  the  Boone  County  verses;  their  author's  audi 
ence  was  assuming  the  proportions  of  a  political  party. 

As  weeks  sped  along  to  the  election  and  the  New 
Year,  inquiries  began  to  come  to  Riley  and  the  Journal 
^ffice  for  the  poems  in  book  form.  Now  for  ten  years 
the  poet  had  dreamed  of  a,  book.  It  is  interestingly 
significant  that  he  displayed  real  affection  for  a  cer 
tain  book  of  verse  even  when  he  was  too  young  to  read 
— simply  for  the  printing  it  contained.  He  liked  after 
ward  to  refer  to  this  as  his  "first  literary  recollection. 

157 


158  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Before  I  was  old  enough  to  read,"  he  said,  "I  remem 
ber  buying  a  book  at  an  old  auctioneer's  shop  in  Green 
field.  I  can  not  imagine  what  prophetic  impulse  took 
possession  of  me  that  I  denied  myself  the  ginger  cakes 
and  candy  that  usually  exhausted  my  youthful  income. 
The  slender  little  volume  must  have  cost  all  of  twenty- 
five  cents.  It  was  Francis  Quarles'  Divine  Emblems 
(first  printed  in  England  in  1635) — a  neat  little  affair 
about  the  size  of  a  pocket  Testament.  I  carried  it 
around  with  me  all  day  long.  It  gave  me  delight  to 
touch  it." 

"  'What  have  you  there,  my  boy?'  a  passer-by  would 
ask. 

"  'A  book/  I  would  answer. 

"  'What  kind  of  a  book?' 

"  Toetry-book.' 

"When  asked  if  I  could  read  poetry,  I  shook  my  head 
and  turned  away  embarrassed — but  I  held  on  to  my 
Poetry-book." 

"I  wrote  and  illustrated  my  first  book — a  book  of 
nursery  rhymes — in  my  vagabond  days/'  Riley  said  on 
another  occasion.  "Even  then  I  had  a  dim,  distant 
idea  that  some  day  I  would  break  into  print  with  a 
real  book.  I  dedicated  these  rhymes  to  my  sister  Mary, 
referring  to  them  as  my  first  and  perhaps  my  last 
appearance  in  book  form." 

All  along  the  way  he  dreamed  of  a  book,  as  indicated 
in  his  answer  to  some  booksellers  who  had  asked  for 
his  early  poems  in  pamphlet  form : 

Greenfield,  Indiana,  October  23,  1877. 
Gentlemen : 

Answering  your  inquiry  of  yesterday — I  have  never 
published  a  volume  of  any  kind.  Trusting  however 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  159 

some  good  future  will  accommodate  our  mutual  de 
sire,  I  am  very  truly  yours,  J.  W.  RILEY. 

The  "good  future"  accommodated  Riley  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1883.  It  was  a  little  book,  fifty  pages — "about 
the  size  of  a  pocket  Testament."  Its  publication  was 
chiefly  due  to  Riley's  wise  friend  and  counselor,  George 
C.  Hitt,  who  for  a  quarter-century  was  associated  with 
the  Indianapolis  Journal.  Mr.  Hitt  had  known  the 
poet  Riley  and  the  man  Riley  intimately  for  a  number 
of  years,  and  was  ever  a  helpful,  a  loyal  and  an  inspir 
ing  friend.  There  were  times  in  those  days  when  Riley 
was  quite  unhappy  away  from  Indianapolis,  fearing 
that  he  might  do  something  his  friend  would  not 
approve.  He  was  always  glad  of  an  opportunity  to 
write  him,  for  "forthwith,"  he  said,  "troops  of  blame 
less  thoughts  came  to  heighten  my  happiness  and  self- 
respect."  Mr.  Hitt  was  his  reliance  when  formal  com 
munications  came  from  institutions  of  learning,  which 
Riley  (ignorant  of  conventional  forms)  knew  not  how 
to  answer.  "After  vainly  carpentering  a  whole  half- 
day,"  he  once  remarked,  "I  went  to  Hitt,  who  knows 
how  to  do  everything,  and  then,  returning  to  my  room, 
I  answered  my  letter  and  went  to  sleep  with  clean 
hands  and  a  clear  conscience." 

Writing  Hitt  from  Greenfield  in  January,  1883,  the 
poet  was  certain  the  days  were  dealing  kindly;  "gen 
erously,  in  fact,"  he  said,  "and  though  I  do  not  deserve 
it,  I  am  as  glad  as  my  colossal  selfishness  permits.  I 
want  this  New  Year  to  be  as  good  to  you  as  you  have 
been  to  me." 

The  title  of  the  book — The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole  and 
'Leven  More  Poems — Riley  said  was  largely  determined 


160  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

by  the  public.  In  his  readings  he  was  nearly  always 
introduced  as  the  author  of  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole," 
and  since  that  poem  was  so  widely  and  favorably 
known,  it  seemed  in  every  way  a  fortunate  choice. 
Also  it  was  in  spirit  with  the  old  farmer  who  had 
dictated  the  poems,  and  best  of  all  it  commemorated 
a  scene  in  Hancock  County  that  had  been  locally  his 
toric  since  the  days  of  the  Log  Cabin  Campaign. 

No  one  has  told  the  story  of  the  book's  publication 
so  well  as  Mr.  Hitt  himself:  "From  July  17  to  Sep 
tember  12,  of  the  previous  year,"  said  he,  "the  twelve 
poems  in  the  volume  appeared  at  intervals  in  the 
Indianapolis  Journal.  Locally  they  created  a  sensa 
tion.  When  it  became  known  that  Mr.  Riley  was  the 
author,  there  seemed  to  be  a  widespread  demand  that 
the  work  be  put  into  some  kind  of  book  form,  and  I 
undertook  to  do  it,  merely  as  a  friend.  I  was  the 
business  manager  of  the  Journal  and  I  knew  the 
author  intimately.  He  and  I  talked  together  fre 
quently  about  publication,  but  there  did  not  appear  to 
be  any  way  to  do  it  in  Indianapolis,  where  there  was, 
at  that  time,  no  book  publishing  house. 

"Finally,  in  the  summer  of  1883,  I  concluded  to  go  to 
Cincinnati  to  try  to  interest  the  old  and  well-known 
publishing  house  of  Robert  Clarke  and  Company  in 
the  matter.  My  efforts  were  fruitless.  They  looked 
at  the  copy  but  declined  to  publish  the  book  with  their 
name  on  the  title  page.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
contract  with  them  for  one  thousand  copies,  as  a  piece 
of  job  work,  which  I  guaranteed  to  do.  At  their  sug 
gestion,  when  we  were  discussing  the  title  page,  the 
name  of  George  C.  Hitt  &  Co.  was  used  as  the  pub 
lisher,  simply  to  complete  the  form  in  the  customary 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  161 

manner.  Mr.  Riley,  in  this  case,  was  the  'company/ 
and  it  was  a  partnership  of  which  I  have  always  been 
proud. 

"Robert  Clarke  and  Company  did  a  good  piece  of 
printing  and  carried  out  their  part  of  the  contract 
faithfully,"  concluded  Mr.  Hitt,  "but  they  let  a  golden 
opportunity  pass  when  they  refused  to  appear  in  com 
pany  with  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  That  little  edition 
of  poems  was  the  beginning  of  a  phenomenal  series  of 
publications  which  have  given  Riley  a  national  reputa 
tion.  When  the  first  edition  was  quickly  sold — that 
part  of  the  business  was  done  by  me  at  the  Jouriial 
office — not  desiring  to  continue  posing  as  a  publisher, 
I  turned  the  copyright  over  to  Merrill,  Meigs  and  Com 
pany,  Indianapolis,  made  a  contract  with  them  for  a 
second  edition,  which  was  a  facsimile  of  the  first, 
except  for  a  red  border  around  the  pages,  and  retired 
as  a  book  publisher  forever." 

The  poems,  clipped  from  the  Journal,  were  pasted 
on  sheets  of  paper,  a  poem  to  a  page,  and  the  Robert 
Clarke  Company,  seeing  that  the  manuscript  had  been 
hastily  put  together  and  that  the  poems  were  in  dialect, 
declined  to  permit  "the  stamp  of  their  house"  to  appear 
on  what  seemed  to  them  an  undignified  collection  of 
inferior  verse.  Rather  than  disappoint  the  poet,  Mr. 
Hitt  consented  to  masquerade  temporarily  as  pub 
lisher,  little  realizing  that  he  was  involving  himself  in 
correspondence  with  other  authors  concerning  publica 
tion  of  their  manuscripts,  and  that  one  day  the  firm 
of  George  C.  Hitt  and  Company  would  appear  in  Pool's 
index  along  with  the  great  publishing  houses  of  the 
country. 

In  connection  with  the  publication  were  such  items 


162  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

of  interest  as  the  following :  Riley  went  to  Cincinnati 
to  read  the  proof — the  book  was  bound  in  imitation 
of  parchment  or  vellum — total  number  of  books  given 
away,  one  hundred  and  three — twenty  books  returned 
— retail  price  fifty  cents — total  cost  of  printing  and 
copyright,  $131 — total  profit  from  the  one  thousand 
copies,  $166.40 — Riley  says  Hitt  generously  turned 
over  to  him  all  the  profit — Hitt  says  they  divided 
equally,  and  the  latter  is  the  authority — Hitt  made  all 
the  arrangements  for  the  second  edition,  securing  for 
Riley  a  generous  royalty,  with  copyright  in  the  poet's 
name. 

Thus  the  poet,  faithfully  working  by  day  in  the 
Journal  office,  and  at  night  in  his  small,  scantily  fur 
nished  room  across  the  street,  began  to  build  a  fair 
future  on  "a  small  beginning" — a  little  pocket  edition 
of  poems,  which  has  since  been  sought  by  collectors 
from  ocean  to  ocean.  After  the  lapse  of  an  average 
lifetime  one  reads  his  simple  foreword  with  pleasure 
and  affection : 

PREFACE. 

As  far  back  into  boyhood  as  the  writer's  memory 
may  intelligently  go,  the  "country  poet"  is  most 
pleasantly  recalled.  He  was,  and  is,  as  common  as 
the  "country  fiddler/'  and  as  full  of  good  old-fashioned 
music.  Not  a  master  of  melody,  indeed,  but  a  poet, 
certainly — 

"Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies." 

And  it  is  simply  the  purpose  of  this  series  of  dialec 
tic  Studies  to  reflect  the  real  worth  of  this  homely 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  163 

child  of  Nature,  and  to  echo  faithfully,  if  possible,  the 
faltering  music  of  his  song. 

J.  W.  R. 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 
July,  1883. 

The  reader  even  turns  over  the  leaf  gently  that  his 
eye  may  linger  on  the  table  of 

CONTENTS. 

The    Old    Swimmin'-Hole 9 

Thoughts  fer  the  Discuraged  Farmer     .  13 

A  Summer's  Day 17 

A  Hymb  of  Faith      .    V    .     .    .    '.'    .  20 

Worter-Melon-Time     .     .     .    .    ...  23 

My    Philosofy 28 

When  The  Frost  Is  on  the  Punkin     .     .  31 

On  the  Death  of  Little  Mahala  Ashcraft  34 

The    Mulberry    Tree 37 

To  My  Old  Neghbor,  William  Leachman  40 

My    Fiddle 46 

The    Clover     .  '  .    ,    .    .    .    .    .    .'  .  49 

Riley  "set  the  little  skiff  afloat  on  the  waves  of 
public  life,"  he  said,  "with  trepidation.  I  had  no  way 
of  knowing  its  fate.  Making  a  book,  you  know,  is  the 
most  ticklish,  unsafe  and  hazardous  of  all  professions. 
I  was  reminded  of  the  preface  in  Tales  of  the  Ocean, 
the  old  book  which  fed  my  hunger  for  stories  in  child 
hood.  Its  author  laid  no  claim  to  literary  excellence, 
and  was  prepared  for  rough  handling  from  the  critics ; 
but  he  claimed  to  know  'every  rope  in  the  ship/  to  be 
familiar  with  nautical  life,  just  as  I  claimed  to  know 
the  things  in  Hoosier  life,  of  which  my  old  farmer  had 
been  singing.  When  my  book  began  to  sell  from  the 


164  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Journal  counting-rooms,  I  knew  that  its  sails  were 
spread,  like  those  for  the  old  Ocean  Tales,  and  that  its 
streamers  were  gaily  flying,  but  whether  it  would  meet 
with  prosperous  breezes  or  have  to  struggle  with  ad 
verse  gales  and  perhaps  founder  in  stormy  seas,  yet 
remained  concealed  in  the  womb  of  time." 

The  poet's  misgivings  were  brief.  Almost  imme 
diately  the  public  invested  "the  larger  part  of  a  trade 
dollar  in  the  humor  and  pathos  of  the  book,"  and  after 
reading  the  verses,  like  Oliver  Twist,  asked  for  more. 
Years  after,  Riley  incorporated  the  little  book  without 
change  in  Neghborly  Poems,  the  first  volume  of  his 
complete  edition. 

In  July,  1883,  Riley  assured  his  old-time  comrade, 
Samuel  Richards,  who  was  then  an  art  student  in 
Munich,  that  the  Hoosier  Poet  was  "building  more 
fame  than  fortune,  though  the  last — God  speed  it — 
would  surely  overtake  him  soon.  Find  enclosed  a 
review  of  my  recent  book,"  he  wrote,  "a  little  unpre 
tentious  sort  o*  venture  in  Hoosier  dialect  which  I  feel 
sure  will  please  you,  however  it  may  fail  with  the 
general  public,  though,  so  far,  it  seems  to  be  striking 
home  there,  as  well ;  and  the  Top  Literati  of  America 
is  just  now  storming  me  with  letters  of  congratula 
tions.  0,  my  man,  our  little  old  visionary  specula 
tions  along  the  ragged  river  banks  at  Anderson  are 
going  to  materialize  after  all!" 

Of  course  the  critics  did  not  become  an  extinct 
species  when  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole"  appeared  in 
book  form,  but  their  infrequent  stings  were  mollified 
by  the  congratulations  from  many  distinguished  men 
and  women.  The  little  book  was  the  beginning  of  a 
warm1  friendship  with  Mark  Twain,  who  in  succeeding 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  165 

years  often  sent  a  word  of  good  will  to  his  Indiana 
favorite,  once,  while  in  Vienna,  addressing  an  en 
velope  to 

Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Poet  &  a  dern  capable  one,  too, 

Indianapolis,  Indiana, 

U.  S.  of  America. 

The  book  "filled  a  lovely  afternoon"  for  Robert 
Burdette.  Edith  M.  Thomas  was  glad  it  had  begun 
"to  rain  prosperity  in  the  Hoosier  Poet's  latitude."  If 
Riley  was  encouraged  by  one  word  more  than  another, 
it  was  the  favorable  comment  of  the  author  of  Castilian 
Days,  who  wrote  from 

Cleveland,  November  7,  1883. 
Dear  Mr.  Riley: 

I  have  received  and  read  with  great  pleasure  the 
book  of  poems  you  were  so  good  as  to  send  me.  They 
have  a  distinct  and  most  agreeable  flavor,  which  is 
entirely  their  own.  I  particularly  like  "When  the 
Frost  is  on  the  Punkin"  and  "Worter-Melon-Time." 
Thanking  you  sincerely  for  remembering  me,  I  am, 
Very  truly  yours, 

JOHN  HAY. 

Puck  found  a  copy  of  The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole  and 
"it  was  as  good  as  a  swim  to  read  it."  Robert  Under 
wood  Johnson  of  the  Century  Magazine  was  "very 
much  in  sympathy  with  its  substance."  There  was, 
however,  "a  tendency  to  over-dramatize  the  close  of 
a  poem,"  and  in  several  instances  Johnson  confessed 
to  a  desire  to  draw  a  pencil  through  a  final  stanza. 
He  wondered  at  Riley's  power  to  compress  "so  much 
genuine  human  nature  into  so  small  a  space." 


166  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Here  began  Riley's  gratitude  to  the  Century's  editor 
for  waking  him  up  to  the  necessity  of  carefully  scruti 
nizing  and  revising  his  poems  before  including  them  in 
his  books.  "There  is  no  resting-place  for  an  author," 
he  said  to  a  friend,  "when  once  in  public  favor,  and 
the  higher  the  favor  the  more  expected  of  him.  Never 
should  he  let  his  ambition  limp.  He  should  be  his  own 
severest  critic,  so  that  when  a  poem  gets  past  his  own 
censure,  he  can  bet  on  its  passing  safely  through  the 
public  gauntlet."  Answering  the  Century  from  "the 
banks  of  Deer  Creek/'  where  he  was  sojourning  with 
a  friend,  he  wrote  as  follows : 

Delphi,  Indiana,  August  28,  1883. 
Dear  Mr.  Johnson: 

The  frank,  direct  way  in  which  you  comment  on  my 
work  pleases  and  makes  me  especially  thankful  to  you. 
You  are  right  as  to  my  tendency  to  over-dramatize  the 
culminations  and  I  will  try  to  avoid  the  error  in  the 
future,  though  it  will  be  no  trifling  matter  to  make 
the  correction.  I  believe  strict  art  demands  exaggera 
tion,  but  to  attain  and  control  the  nice  quality  and 
quantity  of  it  is  the  rub.  When  you  speak  of  the 
"genuine  human  nature"  that  you  find  in  my  at 
tempts,  I  am  encouraged  to  go  on. 

With  your  letter  came  one  from  Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris,  whose  estimate,  I  think  you  will  be  glad  to  know, 
corresponds  most  happily  with  your  own. 

Most  cordially  and  gratefully  yours, 

JAMES  W.  RILEY. 

His  answer  to  Harris — the  next  day  and  from  the 
same  address — was  also  the  beginning  of  one  of  the 
most  affectionate  as  well  as  one  of  the  rarest  relations 
that  fortune  permits  men  of  letters  to  enjoy.  Harris 
had  written  that  Riley  had  "caught  the  true  American 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  167 

spirit  and  flavor."    The  Hoosier  poems  were  distinct 
ive,  and,  he  added,  "they  will  bring  you  distinction." 

Delphi,  Indiana,  August  29,  1883. 
Dear  Mr.  Harris : 

Your  recent  good  letter,  favoring  my  literary  ven 
tures,  should  have  received  a  prompter  reply  than 
this,  but  I  have  been  skurrying  fretfully  about  the 
country,  with  no  breathing  space  till  now. 

It  pleases  me  greatly  to  see,  what  seems,  at  least, 
evidence  of  newer  and  worthier  ambitions  in  our 
present  writers.  The  old  classic  splints  are  being 
loosened  and  taken  off,  as  it  were,  and  our  modern 
authors  are  striking  straight  out  from  the  shoulder. 
I  would  rather  have  you  call  my  verse  Nature  and 
American  than  this  hour  find  myself  the  author  of 
"Queen  Mary."  While  not  a  howling  dervish  in  the 
patriotic  line,  I  can  truly  say  of  the  right  scream  of 
the  Eagle,  "I  like  it ;  it  has  a  soul-stirring  sound" ;  and 
I  believe  we  are  at  last  coming  upon  the  proper  spirit 
of  this  voice  in  literature. 

Cordially  and  gratefully  yours, 

JAMES  W.  RILEY. 

Along  with  the  congratulations  came  requests  for 
the  new  western  poet's  biography.  One  magazine 
asked  for — Name  in  full — where  born — where  educated 
— when  graduated — prominent  positions — college  de 
grees — author  of  what  books? 

Myron  Reed  was  quick  to  see  what  a  ridiculous 
figure  the  "full  dress"  magazine  would  make  of  the 
Hoosier  Poet.  Clipping  a  facetious  description  of  Riley 
from  an  exchange,  part  of  Eugene  Field's,  he  answered 
as  follows:  "Our  poet  looks  like  a  dapper  young 
Episcopal  clergyman.  His  hair  is  yellowish,  his  eyes 
china  blue,  and  his  complexion  pallid.  He  wears  no 


168  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

beard  nor  mustache.  He  has  the  prominent  nose  of  a 
successful  jurist,  and  the  tragedian  brow,  but  his 
mouth  is  the  ideal  mouth  of  a  comedian.  In  conversa 
tion  his  voice  has  the  genuine  Hoosier  twang,  with 
certain  intonations  that  are  strongly  suggestive  of  the 
Yankee.  He  has  published  a  book  of  poems,  and  con 
templates  a  volume  of  short  stories — the  first  work  of 
the  kind  he  has  ever  done." 

Riley  was  more  facetious  than  Reed  about  his  his 
tory,  but  at  the  last  had  not  the  courage  to  send  his 
own  sketch  to  the  "Top  Literati."  "You  ask  me  for 
my  life,"  he  wrote  a  friend  in  Nebraska,  "but  I'd 
rather  give  you  my  money.  I  was  thirty-one  years 
old  last  spring  was  a  year  ago.  I  am  a  blond  of  fair 
complexion,  with  an  almost  ungovernable  appetite  for 
brunettes;  am  five  feet  six  in  height,  though  last  State 
Fair  I  was  considerably  higher  than  that — in  fact,  I 
was  many  times  taken  for  Old  High  Lonesome  as  I 
went  about  my  daily  walk.  I  am  a  house,  sign,  and 
ornamental  painter  by  trade — graining,  marking,  gild 
ing,  etching,  etc.  Used  to  make  lots  of  money,  but 
never  had  any  on  hand.  It  all  evaporated  in  some 
mysterious  way.  My  standard  weight  is  135,  and 
when  I  am  placed  in  solitary  confinement  for  life  I 
Will  eat  onions  passionately.  Bird  seed  I  never  touch. 

"My  father  is  a  lawyer  and  lured  me  into  his  office 
once  for  a  three  months'  penance,  but  I  made  good  my 
escape  and  under  cover  of  the  friendly  night  I  fled  up 
the  pike  with  a  patent-medicine  concert  wagon  and  had 
a  good  time  for  two  or  three  of  the  happiest  years  of 
my  life.  Next  I  struck  a  country  paper  and  tried  to 
edit,  but  the  proprietor  wanted  to  do  that,  and  wouldn't 
let  me,  and  in  about  a  year  I  quit  trying  and  let  him 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  169 

have  his  own  way,  and  now  it's  the  hardest  thing  in 
the  world  for  me  to  acknowledge  that  he  is  still  an 
editor  and  a  most  successful  one.  Later  I  went  back 
home  to  Greenfield,  and  engaged  in  almost  everything 
but  work,  and  so  became  quite  prominent.  Noted 
factions  and  public  bodies  began  to  regard  me  atten 
tively,  and  no  grand  jury  was  complete  without  my 
presence.  I  wasn't  considered  wholly  lost,  however, 
till  I  began  to  publish  poetry — brazenly  affixing  my 
own  name  to  it.  But  I  couldn't  get  any  money  for  it, 
although  stranger  editors  wrote  letters  of  praise  re 
garding  it.  Then  I  sent  a  little  of  it  to  two  or  three 
real  poets  East,  and  they  commended  it,  and  I  showed 
their  letters  and  have  been  paid  ever  since.  Still  I  am 
not  rich.  A  skating  rink  proprietor  who  yearns  to  be 
a  poet  should  be  regarded  with  suspicion." 

It  must  be  evident  to  the  reader  that  the  Hoosier 
Poet  in  this  sketch,  as  in  many  other  remarks  about 
himself,  evaded  the  poetic  label,  and  declined  to  be 
classified,  at  least  as  literary.  "He  is  emphatically  not 
a  poet  of  the  schools,"  wrote  Anna  Nicholas,  "though 
many  of  his  productions  are  of  classic  beauty  and  per 
fection."  Neither  he  nor  his  poems  were  by  nature 
made  to  fit  into  dignified  pigeonholes.  In  pen-pictures 
drawn  in  his  latter  years  he  is  sometimes  described  as 
a  man  who  had  all  the  polish  of  social  and  college 
experience.  After  he  received  his  university  degree, 
friends  sought  seriously  to  dignify  him  by  addressing 
him  "Doctor  Riley."  The  attempt  was  vain.  Titles 
were  foreign  to  him ;  he  belonged  to  the  wide  world  of 
democracy.  It  was  distinction  enough  to  occupy  his 
own  place — somewhere  in  the  line  between  his  Boone 
County  countryman  and  that  "prime  example  of  the 


170  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

best  characteristics  and  ideals  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,"  Abraham  Lincoln. 

It  is  true  that  in  his  last  years  he  was  less  given, 
and  naturally  enough,  to  the  delicious  abandon  that 
characterized  him  in  the  prime  of  life ;  but  he  was  not 
then  the  "Benjamin  F.  Johnson  of  Boone,  whooping 
along  to  other  engagements,  writing  at  a  gallop  with 
a  thousand  things  to  say  and  not  time  enough  for  five 
hundred," — not  the  Riley  of  that  prolific  period  when 
songs  bubbled  forth  at  the  rate  of  two  a  day.  Then 
and  in  his  earlier  youth  he  had  an  almost  divine  spon 
taneity.  He  was  gaiety  incarnate;  often  "excessively 
and  delightfully  silly."  Of  him  it  may  be  said,  as  it 
was  said  of  Stevenson,  that  "a  child-like  mirth  leaped 
and  danced  in  him ;  he  seemed  to  skip  the  hills  of  life ; 
he  simply  bubbled  with  quips  and  jest."  "Often  when 
writing  at  night,"  to  say  it  in  his  own  words,  "I 
laughed  aloud,  overjoyed  with  what  the  Muse  had 
brought  me."  He  had  his  moments  of  depression,  of 
course,  when  he  was  a  solemn  youth,  but  the  moments 
were  not  frequent.  Of  a  truth,  to  know  him  was  to 
love  him  and  to  laugh  and  smile  with  him. 

The  story  of  Riley's  first  book,  so  it  has  been  said, 
would  make  a  fitting  companion  to  those  discouraging 
experiences  of  Bret  Harte,  Jerome,  Zangwill  and  Zola, 
who  worked  their  way  to  recognition  "by  hard  knocks 
that  would  have  taken  the  respiration  out  of  ordinary 
men  and  women."  The  statement  is  slightly  exagger 
ated.  The  hard  knocks  came  to  Riley  before  his  first 
book.  When  it  was  printed  the  bitter  waters  had  been 
passed.  It  was  the  turning  of  the  tide.  After  it  the 
poet's  ways,  as  far  as  book  publication  is  concerned, 


HIS  FIRST  BOOK  171 

were  mostly  ways  of  peace.  It  proved  to  be  the  lark 
at  sunrise,  the  harbinger  of  sixteen  volumes. 

The  book  has  another  claim  on  our  attention.  By  it 
Riley  became  "the  most  discovered  man  in  existence. 
Scores  who  bought  it,"  said  he,  "claimed  to  have  dis 
covered  me  to  the  world.  How  unshaken  each  was  in 
his  belief  that  the  puny,  unpretentious  tome  had  made 
the  name  and  fame  of  the  Hoosier  Poet,  and  that  he 
(the  discoverer)  had  foreseen  it  all  in  the  misty  days 
of  my  wanderings!"  A  few  discoverers,  however, 
were  genuine,  Mary  Hartwell  Catherwood  for  one,  who 
saw  Riley  "moving  on  magnificently";  who,  five  years 
before,  when  he  wrote  the  "Flying  Islands,"  was  cer 
tain  he  "would  rise  to  a  pinnacle  in  the  literary 
world." 

In  an  important  sense,  as  Burdette  expressed  it,  "No 
one  discovered  the  poet.  For  seven  years  Riley  had 
kept  the  wheels  revolving — some  said  without  the  slip 
of  a  cog,  which  was  untrue — but  the  wheels  had  been 
turning.  He  had  looked  to  himself  and  to  Providence 
for  success,  and  not  to  Congress  or  the  state  legis 
lature."  He  had  done  a  vast  deal  more  work  than  his 
nearest  friends  dreamed.  Although  masquerading1  in 
his  book  as  a  farmer,  he  was  also  a  poet  for  men  of 
the  city.  He  had  tried  to  be  as  true  to  them  as  they 
to  him.  The  people  had  said  of  his  songs,  This  is  our 
music ;  this  is  part  of  what  we  are. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES 

CHARLES  DICKENS  was  known  almost  as  well 
by  his  public  readings  as  by  his  books.  Such, 
at  least,  was  the  popular  opinion  for  many  years 
after  the  novelist's  last  American  tour.  In  London, 
when  a  young  man,  he  had  read  from  The  Chimes  to  a 
few  British  artists  and  authors,  among  them  Thomas 
Carlyle,  whose  grave  attention  weighed  heavily  in  the 
balance  when  Dickens  set  his  heart  definitely  on  the 
platform.  "I  am  thinking,"  he  remarked  early  in  his 
career,  "that  an  author  reading  from  his  own  books 
would  take  immensely." 

He  did  take  immensely.  Better  yet.  In  after  years, 
as  he  sat  in  his  quiet  room,  he  had  the  dear  memory 
of  a  people,  whom  he  never  afterward  recalled  as  a 
mere  public  audience,  but  "a  host  of  personal  friends." 

All  this  and  more  had  made  a  deep  impression  on 
Riley.  So  alluring  indeed  had  been  the  account  that 
he  almost  lost  sight  of  the  difficulties  that  lined  the 
way  to  the  platform. 

In  England  the  opinion  was  quite  general  that  the 
dramatic  profession  had  lost  an  eminent  name  when 
Dickens  failed  to  adopt  the  stage.  A  similar  opinion 
concerning  Riley  prevailed  in  Indiana  the  year  of  his 
first  book  venture,  so  successful  had  he  been  as  a  public 
reader. 

172 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     173 

Up  to  1883,  and  for  several  years  after,  Riley  was 
strongly  of  the  opinion  that  poetry  did  not  pay,  and 
it  is  not  a  wild  exaggeration  to  say  that  no  one  was 
more  surprised  and  pleased  than  he  was  when  it  did 
pay.  He  usually  gave  four  reasons  for  his  remaining 
on  the  platform,  in  spite  of  advice  to  the  contrary 
from  some  of  his  literary  contemporaries. 

1.  His  resolve  to  make  his  own  living. 

2.  His  hunger  to  produce  poems  that  would  ring 
true  to  the  hearts  of  the  people. 

3.  His  purpose  to  give  wider  circulation  to  his 
poems. 

4.  His  desire  to  make  people  happy. 

There  was  also  the  hope  that  public  readings  would 
help  him  to  find  a  publisher.  "My  first  book,"  he 
wrote  a  young  writer,  "I  sent  East  (down  to  Cincin 
nati  was  East)  where  even  my  sponsor  could  not  give 
it  away — could  not  get  them  to  look  at  it — much  less 
print  it  on  any  terms  but  job  rates — same  as  my 
ordering  so  many  hundred  placards  and  whackin'  down 
every  blessed  penny — which  every  blessed  penny  I  did 
not  have  to  whack.  So  I  turned  my  attention  to  as 
nearly  a  practical  vocation  as  I  could  (public  reading), 
hoping  to  widen  my  reputation  until  I  should  be  known 
to  the  general  public — then  only  could  I  hope  my  name 
would  secure  a  publisher  to  help  me  out.  And  never 
till  within  the  last  year  has  any  notable  publisher  made 
me  an  offer  that  involved  a  possible  hope  of  my  making 
a  dollar.  True,  I  have  had  here  a  local  audience  that 
at  last  began  to  pay  me  for  the  venture  in  book  form 
that  I  took  into  my  own  hands.  My  present  publishers 
take  my  books  and  give  me  a  royalty.  Simply,  the 
whole  thing  involves  infinite  time  and  patience  and 


174  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

wholesome  bravery,  and  is  variously  rounded  into  suc 
cess  after  many  years." 

Fortunately  there  is  extant  the  testimony  of  the 
old-time  colleague  and  first  publisher,  who  was  also 
the  poet's  manager  in  those  transitional  years :  "The 
present  generation  does  not  know,"  wrote  Mr.  Hitt  in 
1907,  "it  can  not  know  the  greatness  of  Mr.  Riley  as  a 
reader.  He  developed  that  talent  as  his  genius  grew 
in  poetry,  and  for  years  before  he  found  a  public  to 
buy  and  enjoy  his  books,  he  had  charmed  multitudes 
with  readings  from  his  own  work.  In  fact  this  outlet 
was  for  him  a  most  natural  one,  because  he  was  a  born 
actor  as  well  as  a  poet.  His  imagination  drifted  easily 
into  dramatic  channels,  and  what  he  saw  and  heard  as 
a  boy  among  the  homely,  wholesome  people  of  Indiana 
he  later  transmuted  into  poetry,  and  unconsciously 
began  to  impersonate  the  characters  that  marshaled 
themselves  in  his  fertile  brain.  Many  of  his  well- 
known  poems  were  offered  to  Indiana  audiences  long 
before  they  got  into  print,  and  nearly  all  his  humorous 
prose  sketches  were  familiar  to  his  friends  here  at 
home  before  they  delighted  audiences  elsewhere.  His 
best  poems  were  first  printed  in  the  newspapers,  and 
were  widely  copied;  but  he  was  even  then  strong  on 
the  platform  as  the  interpreter  of  his  own  product. 
The  lecture  bureaus  finally  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  desirable,  and  for  season  after  season  he  had  for 
his  field  most  of  the  United  States." 

In  his  own  inimitable  fashion  the  poet  once  reviewed 
somewhat  at  length  his  career  as  a  public  reader,  and 
that  with  Mr.  Hitt's  sympathetic  corroboration  should 
silence  those,  if  any  still  exist,  who  look  askance  on 
his  platform  achievements :  "In  boyhood,"  Riley  said, 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     175 

"I  had  been  vividly  impressed  with  Dickens'  success 
in  reading  from  his  own  works,  and  dreamed  that  some 
day  I  might  follow  his  example.  At  first  I  read  at 
Sunday-school  entertainments,  and  later  on  special 
occasions  such  as  Memorial  Days  and  Fourth  of  Julys. 
At  last  I  mustered  up  sufficient  courage  to  read  in  a 
city  theater,  where,  despite  the  conspiracy  of  a  rainy 
night  and  a  circus,  I  got  encouragement  enough  to  lead 
me  to  extend  my  efforts.  And  so,  my  native  state  and 
then  the  country  at  large  were  called  upon  to  bear 
with  me,  and  I  think  every  sequestered  spot  north  or 
south  particularly  distinguished  for  poor  railroad  con 
nections. 

"All  this  time  I  had  been  writing  whenever  there 
was  any  strength  left  in  me.  I  could  not  resist  the 
inclination  to  write.  It  was  what  I  most  enjoyed 
doing.  And  so  I  wrote,  laboriously  ever,  more  often 
using  the  rubber  end  of  the  pencil  than  the  point. 

"In  my  readings  I  had  an  opportunity  to  study  and 
find  out  for  myself  what  the  public  wants,  and  after 
ward  I  would  endeavor  to  use  the  knowledge  gained  in 
my  writing.  Myron  Reed  used  to  say  to  me,  'A  poet 
should  ride  in  an  omnibus,  not  in  a  cab.'  Reed  knew 
my  need,  for  he  stood  near  the  public  heart.  The 
public  desires  nothing  but  what  is  absolutely  natural, 
and  so  perfectly  natural  as  to  be  fairly  artless.  It 
can  not  tolerate  affectation,  and  it  takes  little  interest 
in  the  classical  production.  It  demands  simple  senti 
ments  that  come  direct  from  the  heart.  While  on  the 
lecture  platform  I  watched  the  effect  that  my  readings 
had  on  the  audience  very  closely  and  whenever  any 
body  left  the  hall  I  knew  that  my  recitation  was  at 
fault  and  tried  to  find  out  why.  Once  a  man  and  his 


176  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

wife  made  an  exit  while  I  was  giving  'The  Happy 
Little  Cripple' — a  recitation  I  had  prepared  with  par 
ticular  enthusiasm  and  satisfaction.  It  fulfilled,  as 
few  poems  do,  all  the  requirements  of  length,  climax 
and  those  many  necessary  features  for  a  recitation. 
The  subject  was  a  theme  of  real  pathos,  beautified  by 
the  cheer  and  optimism  of  the  little  sufferer.  Conse 
quently  when  this  couple  left  the  hall  I  was  very 
anxious  to  know  the  reason  and  asked  a  friend  to  find 
out.  He  learned  that  they  had  a  little  hunch-back 
child  of  their  own.  After  this  experience  I  never  used 
that  recitation  again.  On  the  other  hand,  it  often 
required  a  long  time  for  me  to  realize  that  the  public 
would  enjoy  a  poem  which,  because  of  some  blind 
impulse,  I  thought  unsuitable.  A  man  once  suggested 
'When  the  Frost  Is  on  the  Punkin/  The  use  of  it  had 
never  occurred  to  me,  for  I  thought  it  'wouldn't  go/ 
He  persuaded  me  to  try  it  and  it  became  one  of 
my  most  favored  recitations.  Thus,  I  learned  to 
judge  and  value  my  verses  by  their  effect  upon  the 
public. 

"Occasionally,  at  first,  I  had  presumed  to  write  'over 
the  heads'  of  the  audience,  consoling  myself  over  their 
cool  reception  by  thinking  my  auditors  were  not  of 
sufficient  intellectual  height  to  appreciate  my  efforts. 
But  after  a  time  it  came  home  to  me  that  I  myself 
was  at  fault  in  these  failures,  and  then  I  disliked  any 
thing  that  did  not  appeal  to  the  public  and  learned  to 
discriminate  between  that  which  did  not  ring  true  to 
the  hearts  of  my  hearers  and  that  which  won  them  by 
virtue  of  its  simple  truthfulness." 

Riley's  success  beyond  the  borders  of  his  native  state 
dates  from  his  first  reading  in  Boston,  "the  city  of 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     177 

twisting  streets,"  he  called  it  after  being  lost  in  them. 
His  week  there,  friends  said,  was  a  grand  investment 
for  his  whole  career.  He  had  dreamed  of  reading  from 
the  Tremont  Temple  rostrum  ever  since  Dickens  had 
triumphed  there  thirteen  years  before.  He  realized  his 
dream  the  first  Tuesday  evening  in  January,  1882, 
appearing  in  his  lecture  on  "Poetry  and  Character," 
as  an  extra  attraction  in  the  Bible  Union  Course. 
"Success  absolute/'  he  wired  his  physician  in  Indiana. 
"Remain  over  Saturday,  the  guest  of  the  first  literary 
Club  of  America." 

That  night  the  Boston  Transcript  made  a  discovery. 
"Mr.  Riley  is  not  only  a  genuine  poet,"  wrote  the 
editor,  "but  he  possesses  the  rare  power  in  recitation 
of  conveying  his  own  feelings  to  his  audience.  He  has 
not  been  spoiled  by  any  of  the  schools  of  oratory,  but 
reads  from  the  heart.  He  has  fine  poetic  instinct,  a 
keen  sense  of  humor,  good  presence,  a  pleasant,  flexible 
voice,  clear,  distinct  utterance  and  remarkable  power 
of  facial  expression — a  strong  combination  of  qualities, 
essential  for  one  in  his  profession,  and  which  should 
make  him  a  strong  card  with  the  bureaus,  and  an 
especial  favorite  with  the  public." 

An  Indiana  exchange  congratulated  Boston  on  its 
ability  to  discover  without  circumlocution  the  brilliant 
abilities  of  the  Hoosier  Poet.  It  also  congratulated 
Riley  on  his  Boston  triumph.  "Wherever,"  it  said,  "in 
the  broad  land  the  people  are  capable  of  appreciating 
good  things,  J.  W.  Riley  will  be  immensely  popular, 
and  now  that  'his  bark  is  on  the  sea,'  we  wish  him 
everywhere  Boston  receptions  and  ovations." 

He  arrived  in  the  city  a  few  days  before  the  lecture, 
as  seen  in  his  prompt  letter  to  Mr.  Hitt,  dated 


178  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Tremont  House,  Boston,  January  1,  1882. 
Dear  George: 

Everything  is  well,  and  I  am  going  to  "make  it" — 
dead  sure!  I  have  been  very  flatteringly  received, 
and  the  letters  I  brought  are  of  much  importance. 
With  them  yesterday  I  was  piloted  around  to  a  won 
derful  extent — meeting  not  only  notables  to  whom 
they  were  addressed,  but  "boosted"  on  by  the  recipients 
till  I  knew  everybody  of  the  ilk — all  who  were  not  out 
of  town.  The  Transcript  did  not  need  an  introduc 
tion — remembering  me  without,  and — I  am  glad  to  as 
sure  you — with  some  little  enthusiasm.  I  met  Oliver 
Optic  yesterday — a  very  boy-like  old  man,  who  already 
had  a  ticket  to  my  show.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  was 
out  of  town  but  is  back  to-morrow.  Positively  assured 
of  an  audience  of  at  least  two  thousand  people — the 
best.  Longfellow  himself  would  come,  he  told  me,  but 
that  his  physicians  are  just  now  restricting  his  gam- 
bolings.  Dan  Macauley  and  I  saw  the  grand  old  man 
yesterday,  in  spite  of  the  doctors  who  have  tried  to 
shut  the  world  away  from  him.  He  was  very,  very 
gracious,  and  complimented  me  beyond  all  hope  of  ex 
pression.  Can  not  tell  you  anything  now — wait  till 
I  return  with  the  laurels  on  me  brow. 

There  are  many  peculiar  features  about  Boston.  I 
have  seen  Beacon  Street,  the  Old  South  Church,  Bos 
ton  Common,  and  the  Bridge  where  Longfellow  stood 
at  midnight,  when  the  clocks  were  giving  the  thing 
away,  and  so  forth. 

As  ever,  J.  W.  R. 

Subsequently  Riley  remarked  that  he  had  had  many 
audiences  indulgent  enough  to  listen  graciously  to  what 
he  had  to  offer,  and  that  he  had  been  flattered  and 
confused  too  with  the  expressions  of  their  favor,  but 
never  before  had  he  felt  so  unworthy  of  attention  or 
commendation  as  when  reciting  a  poem  in  Longfellow's 
presence. 


OLD  SEMINARY  HOMESTEAD,  GREENFIELD — THE  "CROW'S  NEST." 
The  center  window  on  the  second  floor  was  where  the  Poet  worked 


KlNGRY'S    MILL,    WHERE    PlONEEBS    "TUCK    THEIR    GfilNDIN'  "    IN    THE 

FALL  OF  FORTY-THREE 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     179 

The  unwritten  portion  of  the  poet's  Boston  visit  and 
the  honors  paid  him  were  in  some  respects  more 
marked  and  important  than  his  reception  by  the  public 
audience — his  "glorious  yacht  ride"  down  the  harbor 
and  his  first  view  of  the  ocean  at  old  Fort  Warren,  and 
other  happenings.  He  had  letters  of  introduction  from 
Myron  Reed  to  Trowbridge  and  Wendell  Phillips.  He 
especially  admired  Phillips,  and  one  shares  his  dis 
appointment  when  he  failed  to  meet  him.  In  his  later 
years  he  carried  Reed's  Temple  Talks  in  his  valise 
when  on  the  road,  that  he  might  read  and  reread  the 
essay  on  Phillips.  Reed's  letter  of  introduction  was 
strikingly  characteristic : 

THE  JOURNAL. 

Indianapolis,  December  26,  1881. 
Wendell  Phillips—Boston. 

Dear  Sir:  This  will  be  presented  to  you  by  my 
friend,  James  W.  Riley,  who  visits  Boston  by  appoint 
ment  of  "The  Redpath  Bureau"  and  will  make  a  tour 
in  and  about  New  England.  We  think  highly  of  Mr. 
Riley  and  hope  and  indeed  expect  that  he  will  please 
the  people  of  the  East.  Please  to  give  Mr.  Riley  such 
advice  as  will  help  him  in  getting  hold.  He  is  a 
native  of  Indiana  and  his  prose  and  poetry  are  of  the 
soil  of  this  region  but  so  thoroughly  human  that  I 
think  he  will  succeed  anywhere. 

With  much  respect, 

MYRON  W.  REED. 

"Last  night,"  Riley  wrote  Hitt  in  boyish  glee,  "the 
president  of  the  Papyrus  Club  drove  around  for  me  in 
a  carriage  on  runners,  and  glanced  me  down  to  the 
St.  Botolph  Club,  where  they  were  entertaining  the 


180  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Tile  Club.    It  was  glorious.    There  I  met  Howells, 
Aldrich,  and  a  host  of  other  celebrities." 

In  another  letter  to  Hitt,  the  poet  and  Boston  were 
becoming  acquainted.  "What  makes  a  place  lovable  is 
being  welcomed  in  it,  and  made  thoroughly  at  home," 
he  wrote.  "I  can  not  begin  to  tell  you  how  dear  to  me 
old  Boston  is.  It  did  not,  just  at  first,  seem  to  thor 
oughly  appreciate  the  honor  I  was  doing  it,  but  now  it 
is  'catching  on/  and  we  are  mutually  looking  over  each 
other's  shortcomings,  knowing  each  other  better  day 
by  day.  I  have  a  most  pressing  invitation  to  join  the 
Papyrus  Club  at  their  anniversary  banquet.  I  am 
destined  to  meet  every  potentate  in  the  town.  Just 
think  of  it !  Men  are  bred  and  grown  up  here,  through 
all  gradations  of  development,  with  no  other  object 
than  to  work  their  final  way  into  this  Club — and  fail 
and  fade  and  droop  away  and  die  without  accomplish 
ing  their  object — and  here  I  come  and  sidle  in  and  do 
not  even  try — can't  help  myself." 

There  were  surprises  all  round.  His  audiences  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  Hoosier  Poet  was  the  author 
of  his  recitations.  James  Boyle  O'Reilly,  a  brother 
poet,  was  surprised  at  the  impression  his  western 
friend  made  on  distinguished  men.  "After  a  few  days' 
visit,"  said  he,  "Riley  left  Boston  with  the  conviction 
in  the  minds  of  all  who  met  him  that  the  West  has  a 
poet  who  has  power  in  him  to  win  a  national  reputa 
tion." 

Although  there  was  little  to  discount  in  Boston,  ill 
winds  blew  when  he  left  the  city  to  fill  other  New 
England  engagements.  Two  weeks  as  "a  frost-bitten 
pilgrim"  in  a  strange  land  ended  in  sighs  for  home, 
as  seen  in  portions  of  a  private  letter  from  Boston : 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     181 

"To  begin  with,  I  like  Boston,  as  you  know,  but  New 
England — ?  Of  course  I  see  it — what  I  see  of  it — in 
the  most  unlovely  season;  but  it  strikes  me  as  the 
coldest,  bleakest,  barrenest  and  most  forbidding  coun 
try  on  earth.  I  would  not  die  here  for  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  a  night.  I  would  rather  die  in  mid- 
ocean,  with  a  bull  shark  for  my  burial  casket.  I  used 
to  think  it  was  cold  there  at  home,  but  it  is  May  there 
now,  I  know,  and  I  want  to  be  queen  of  it.  I  want  to 
wade  in  mud.  I  want  to  stroll  up  and  down  Washing 
ton  Street  (Indianapolis)  in  a  rain-storm,  with  only  a 
smile  to  cover  me.  Positively  I  am  very  homesick,  but 
have  only  a  pull  now  of  a  week  or  so  further — then  I 
will  shake  the  everlasting  snows  from  my  feet,  and 
get  back  to  Indiana  like  a  four-time  winner. 

"Every  day  and  night,  while  in  the  city  here,  is 
crowded  full  of  rare  delights;  but  that  only  serves  to 
heighten  the  lonesome,  cheerless,  dreary,  weary  experi 
ences  in  the  country.  And,  talk  of  the  country!  I 
tell  you  there  is  a  country  town  here  every  mile-post 
and  each  one  of  them,  to  me,  more  desolate  and  unin 
viting  than  the  last.  My  last  experience,  for  instance : 
After  leaving  Boston,  with  only  a  sandwich  and  a  gulp 
of  coffee  for  breakfast,  I  rode  and  rode  and  rode, 
making  'three  separate  and  distinct  changes'  of  cars, 
with  only  time  enough  between  changes  to  fall  down 
once  or  twice  between  depots,  at  last  alighting,  at 
three-thirty  o'clock,  at  the  station  where  I  was  to  take 
the  stage  for  final  destination.  No  hotel  in  the  town — 
no  anything  but  snow — and  an  hour  to  wait  for  the 
'stage,'  an  open  sleigh  drawn  by  a  horse  with  fur  on 
him  instead  of  hair,  and  a  man  to  drive  him,  dressed 
like  an  Esquimau,  with  a  fur  cap  pulled  down  over  his 


182  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ears  till  all  communication  was  stopped,  and  the  gift 
of  talking  being  rapidly  forgotten.  For  ten  miles  I 
froze  in  silence,  and  through  the  glaze  over  my  eyes 
could  just  make  out  the  church  was  lighted  ready  for 
the  lecture  as  we  drove  into  town.  Then  up  at  six 
next  morning,  in  order  to  back-track  and  make  the 
train  in  time  for  the  next  point. 

"Sometimes,  however,  the  experiences  are  pleas- 
anter.  One  night  last  week,  for  instance,  only  a  half- 
hour  out  of  the  city,  was  an  engagement  at  Salem. 
And  Josh  Billings  was  in,  with  a  night  off,  and  so  went 
with  me ;  and  we  went  early  and  'researched*  the  city's 
archives,  for  was  it  not  there  that,  in  the  good  old 
colonial  days,  they  used  to  'work  off'  witches?  So  we 
visited  the  scenes  of  the  old-time  horror.  And  we  saw 
the  original  death  warrants  of  the  condemned,  and 
listened  to  some  of  the  very  clever  tests  of  how  a  witch 
was  proved.  It  seems  that  they  meant  business  in 
those  old  Puritanic  days.  And  among  other  sacred 
relics,  too,  we  saw  a  little  phial  of  pins — ten  pins,  as 
I  counted  them  (note  how  our  modern  game  dates 
back),  ten  little,  rusty,  round-headed  brass  pins,  cor 
roded  and  green  with  the  scum  of  centuries.  And  these 
pins  were  once  displayed  before  the  wise  officials  of 
Cotton  Mather's  time  as  having  been  plucked  from  the 
flesh  of  little  children  and  other  innocent  victims  of 
the  Goody  Coles  of  that  day — still  preserved,  as  Bill 
ings  sagely  remarked,  'as  a  kind  o'  religious  soovner 
uf  the  days,  witch  is  no  more.'  " 

To  speak  truth  Riley  did  return  to  his  native  state 
"a  four-time  winner."  The  East -was  no  longer  a 
sealed  book.  His  old  home  paper  (The  Hancock  Demo 
crat)  put  another  mark  on  the  calendar  of  his  progress. 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     183 

Greenfield  was  glad  that  Boston  had  crowned  him  with 
laurels,  and  that  his  star  was  in  the  ascendent. 

Always  there  was  the  unselfish  service  of  the  beloved 
Burdette.  "If  the  house  that  greets  Riley  is  half  so 
large  as  his  lecture  is  twice  as  good,"  he  wrote  a  com 
mittee,  "people's  feet  will  stick  out  the  dormer  win 
dows.  My  word  for  it,  after  hearing  him  you  will 
want  him  to  come  back  again  and  again."  In  June, 
1881,  he  wrote  the  Redpath  Lyceum  Bureau,  recom 
mending  his  friend  as  the  rising  star  on  the  humorous 
platform,  thus  "working"  the  poet  into  the  Redpath 
list  with  such  conspicuous  stars  as  Wendell  Phillips — 
John  B.  Gough — David  Swing — Major  Henry  Dane — 
Mary  A.  Livermore — Robert  Collyer — Josh  Billings — 
and  Russell  H.  Conwell.  To  consort  with  that  list  was 
a  new  experience  in  the  life  of  the  Hoosier  Poet;  but 
so  it  happened,  his  name  (in  alphabetical  order) 
appearing  near  that  of  David  Swing — "JAMES  W. 
RILEY,  Humorist  and  Dialect  Reader,  in  his  original 
impersonations,  character  sketches,  and  studies  from 
real  life." 

The  poet  was  now  fully  awake  to  the  opportunity 
afforded  him  in  this  wider  field.  He  had  been  told  in 
Boston  that  he  possessed  the  attributes  of  actor  and 
author — a  rare  combination.  It  was  within  his  power, 
Josh  Billings  had  said,  "to  move  an  audience  to  any 
emotion  he  desired.  His  voice  was  musical,  whether 
attuned  to  laughter  or  tears.  He  was  not  a  poor 
mumbler  of  words."  Some  authors  as  they  approach 
the  footlights,  Billings  went  on  to  say,  "remind  their 
audience  of  an  undertaker.  They  read  from  their  own 
works  in  a  voice  solemn  as  a  cow-bell  after  dark.  Riley 
will  avoid  such  as  he  would  a  pestilence." 


184  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

In  February,  1882,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Red- 
path  Bureau,  the  poet  was  "off  for  a  series  of  readings" 
in  Ohio,  Pennsylvania  and  Delaware.  Chief  interest 
centered  in  the  Star  Course  of  Philadelphia — a  triple 
entertainment  in  the  Academy  of  Music,  by  Josh  Bill 
ings,  Burdette,  the  Hawkeye  Man,  and  the  Hoosier 
Poet.  "It  was  a  sparkling  night,"  said  Riley;  "some 
thing  to  remember  a  hundred  years."  He  recalled 
Billings  pleasantly,  his  rugged  brow  and  long  iron-gray 
hair  tossed  back  "like  the  mane  of  a  lion,"  how  he 
sauntered  negligently  across  the  stage  and  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  spread  his  handkerchief  on  his  knee 
and  moistened  his  finger-tips;  and  how  the  old  hero 
of  the  rostrum  began  in  trembling  voice  to  drop  those 
rough  gems  of  wisdom  that  so  often  resembled  the 
proverbs  of  Franklin. 

Burdette's  part  of  the  program  was  to  "make  a  few 
dry  hits"  in  introducing  Riley  to  the  Quaker  City 
audience.  "Indiana,"  he  said,  "has  frequently  and 
widely  been  known  more  for  what  it  is  not  than  for 
what  it  is.  Too  often  in  the  splendors  of  our  gilded 
and  barbarous  Orient,  we  have  used  Hoosierdom  as  a 
synonym  for  verdancy  and  a  low  state  of  civilization 
and  culture.  Do  you  know  that  Indiana  was  vaccinated 
for  colleges  years  ago  and  that  it  took  splendidly  all 
over  the  state?  Do  you  know  that  there  are  five  col 
leges  on  or  near  the  Monon  railroad,  the  slowest  line 
in  the  state?  I  have  no  doubt  all  the  trunk  lines  have 
more  colleges.  They  must  have.  Do  you  know  that 
Indiana  has  a  better  system'  of  turnpikes  than  Penn 
sylvania?  Do  you  know  that  Indiana  put  its  foot  down 
on  tariff  for  revenue  only?  Do  you  know  that  our 
Conestoga  farmers  are  turning  their  soil  with  Indiana 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     185 

plows,  and  hauling  their  products  to  market  in  Stude- 
baker  wagons?  But  the  best  thing  Indiana  ever  did 
for  this  audience  was  to  take  from  the  Indianapolis 
Journal  sanctum,  and  send  here  to-night  for  our  in 
struction  and  entertainment  Mr.  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  whom  I  now  have  the  pleasure  and  honor  of 
introducing." 

Riley's  contribution  was,  in  part,  the  lecture  given 
in  Boston.  His  poems  were  in  dialect,  he  said,  but  he 
hoped  "they  would  survive  the  fleeting  favor  of  to 
day."  According  to  the  press  report  "he  proved  him 
self  not  only  a  poet  of  genuine  merit,  but  a  speaker  of 
rare  ability,  and  the  audience  gave  ample  evidence  of 
its  appreciation  of  him1  in  both  capacities." 

The  wider  field  required  lithographs,  posters  and 
new  testimonials.  The  author  of  the  lecture  on  "Milk" 
contributed  (in  "reformed  spelling")  to  his  friend's 
welfare  as  follows : 

Salem,  Mass.,  January  17,  1883. 
Deer  Publik:    I  take  extreem  delite  in  introdusing  2 
yure  imediate  notis  mi  yung  and  handsum  frend,  Mr. 
James  Whit  Kum  Riley,  who  iz  a  phunny  man  of 
purest  ray  sereen.     He  iz  the  only  man  i  kno  that 
plays  his  own  hand,  or,  in  wurds  less  profeshonal,  the 
only  man  that  gives  his  own  produxions,  and  not  other 
folks'.    He  iz  phunnier  than  tung  kan  tell. 
Yures  without  a  struggle, 

JOSH  BILLINGS. 

There  was  scarcely  a  town  of  five  thousand  in 
habitants  in  New  York  and  New  England  where  Bill 
ings  had  not  lectured,  where  an  audience  had  not  seen 
"the  celebrated  glass  of  milk  on  the  stand,  to  which  he 
never  alluded."  He  heightened  the  demand  for  Riley 


186  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

in  that  field.    On  the  occasion  of  his  death  two  years 
later,  Riley  gave  expression  to  his  gratitude  in  verse: 

"Jolly-hearted  old  Josh  Billings, 
With  his  wisdom  and  his  wit, 
And  his  gravity  of  presence, 
And  the  drollery  of  it! 

"Though  we  lose  him^  still  we  find  him 

In  the  mirth  of  every  lip, 
And  we  fare  through  all  his  pages 
In  his  glad  companionship. 

"His  voice  is  wed  with  Nature's, 

Laughing  in  each  woody  nook 
With  the  chirrup  of  the  robin 
And  the  chuckle  of  the  brook." 

The  new  field  required  a  new  lecture,  if  new  scaf 
folding  for  old  reading  selections  constituted  a  new 
lecture.  He  gave  the  lecture  the  unlettered  title,  "Eli 
and  How  He  Got  There."  It  drew  "crowded  houses 
down  East,"  but  it  was  his  poems  that  won  the  ap 
plause,  not  what  he  said  in  prose  between  them.  The 
scaffolding  of  the  lecture  lacked  strength  of  structure 
so  that  it  was  likely  to  fall  to  pieces.  "How  Eli  Got 
There,"  said  one  who  heard  it,  might  as  well  have 
been  anything  else,  since  the  entertainment  consisted 
of  recitations,  which  were  as  popular  before  he  wrote 
the  lecture  as  they  were  after  it. 

It  was  the  general  opinion  of  those  who  heard  the 
lecture  that  the  poet  impaired  its  good  effect  by  reading 
it.  "If  there  is  an  individual  in  the  universe,"  an 
editor  wrote,  "with  moral  heroism  and  courage  enough 
to  take  Riley  to  one  side  and  force  him  to  commit  it. 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     187 

that  individual  will  confer  a  lasting  favor  upon  lecture- 
goers  and  Riley  himself,  by  proceeding  to  set  the 
thumb-screws  in  motion  at  once."  As  it  turned  out, 
the  editor  was  the  one  individual  who  set  the  screws 
in  motion.  The  poet  promptly  memorized  the  lecture. 

But  still  it  was  defective.  He  talked  learnedly,  "at 
least  made  a  show  at  it,"  he  said,  about  famous  gen 
erals,  distinguished  scientists  and  enormous  birds. 
Sometimes  he  gave  more  particulars,  for  example, 
when  telling  about  the  albatross — how  it  was  the 
largest  of  oceanic  birds,  how  it  could  follow  ships  for 
days  without  resting,  and  how  sailors,  rounding  Cape 
Horn,  had  seen  it  asleep  on  heaving  billows,  with  its 
head  under  its  wing.  All  very  beautiful  and  interest 
ing,  but  the  poet  was  not  the  man  to  tell  it.  What  had 
he  to  do  with  those  splendid  birds  of  the  southern  seas? 
Let  him  stay  at  home  with  the  bluebird  and  the  pewee. 
Let  us  have  less  of  Huxley  and  Hannibal,  was  the 
hearers'  desire,  and  more  of  Benjamin  F.  Johnson  of 
Boone. 

He  told  for  the  first  time  "The  Old  Soldier's  Story"— 
how  a  gallant  private  carried  a  wounded  comrade  off 
the  battle-field — but  it  was  not  well  told.  Five  years 
passed  before  it  took  the  true  humorous-story  form  and 
became  "about  the  funniest  thing"  that  Mark  Twain 
"ever  listened  to." 

About  1884  the  lecture  title  was  changed  to  "Eccen 
tricities  of  Western  Humor."  Later  it  was  "Charac 
teristics  of  the  Hoosier  Dialect,"  and  still  later,  "A 
Little  Attenuated  Capability,"  which  might  as  well 
have  been  any  other  title  so  far  as  it  related  to  the 
text.  New  poems,  "Knee-deep  in  June"  and  "Kingry's 
Mill,"  were  included  in  his  list  of  recitations,  and  a 


188  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

prose  sketch,  "The  Dicktown  Wonder/*  a  speech  in 
dialect  of  an  old-time  legislator  at  a  natural  gas  meet 
ing  in  his  village,  which  happened  to  be  in  the  heart 
of  the  "Great  Indiana  Gas  Belt."  As  "cheerman"  of 
the  meeting  he  apprised  his  neighbors  of  the  vast 
resources  under  them,  and  admonished  his  community 
"to  keep  clear  heads"  and  "stretch  every  nerve"  to  the 
great  possibilities  ahead  of  it. 

Changes  in  the  poet's  entertainment  continued  to  the 
year  1887,  when  the  lecture  feature  was  wholly  dis 
continued.  Henceforth  "an  evening  with  Riley"  meant 
the  recital  of  his  poems,  accompanied  by  "those  de 
licious  interludes"  which  made  his  readings  famous. 

In  the  half-dozen  years  with  the  Redpath  Bureau, 
return  engagements  had  been  the  rule.  He  had  lec 
tured  in  most  of  the  cities  and  in  scores  of  small  towns 
from  Manhattan,  Kansas,  to  Maine.  The  rewards  had 
been  sufficient  for  a  livelihood ;  on  the  whole,  more  to 
be  desired  than  the  evils  to  be  dreaded.  Woes  had  been 
cumulative.  He  "was  crowded  along  in  a  sort  of  lock- 
step  through  the  year.  Distraction,"  he  wrote  a  friend, 
"follows  in  the  wake  of  this  relentless  business.  Night 
time  I  always  like,  for  then  I  talk  to  crowds,  but 
through  the  day — hurry,  worry,  bother,  bluster, 
anxiety,  and  hunger  for  companionship.  Strangers  to 
the  right  of  me,  strangers  to  the  left  of  me,  and  always 
the  spiteful  and  convulsive  jerking  of  the  car,  and  the 
din  and  clangor  of  the  wheels,  and  the  yelp  of  the  bells 
of  the  passing  trains,  and  so  on,  ad  hysterium!" 

Sunday  was  his  lonely  day.  His  experience  one 
winter  in  Pennsylvania  is  a  sample  of  what  happened 
at  other  frozen  points.  He  wrote  George  Hitt  about 
it  from  the 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     189 

Tifft  House,  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  February  2,  1883. 
Dear  George: 

The  papers  sent  to  Lock  Haven  were  glorious.  I 
have  read  them  into  shreds.  Stayed  there  over  Sun 
day — had  a  big  house  there  Saturday  night,  though  I 
did  not  get  in  till  half  past  eight.  Everybody  de 
lighted,  as  it  seems  everybody  has  been  every  place  I 
have  appeared.  Guess  I  am  really  doing  better  than 
ever  before.  No  single  point  visited  yet  that  I  have 
not  been  assured  of  a  recall.  But  it  is  still  cold.  Cer 
tainly,  as  congestive  as  the  western  thermometer  has 
been,  it  has  not  reached  the  level  of  the  East.  Coming 
here  from  Portville  yesterday,  the  frost  on  the  car 
windows  reached  the  depth  of  a  quarter  of  an  inch  at 
least,  and  the  wind  was  something  awful.  It  seemed 
we  would  be  blown  from  the  track,  and  that  half  the 
time  the  cars  were  running  on  one  rail,  with  trucks 
cocked  in  the  air  and  freezing  like  a  rooster  on  one  leg. 

But  I  must  close.  Have  met  all  the  newspaper  men, 
and  been  treated  royally  by  them.  They  are  fine  fel 
lows  and  all  seem  to  know  the  Journal  well. 

Hastily,  JAMESY. 

While  "locked  up"  in  Lock  Haven,  he  wrote  to  an 
other  associate  on  the  Journal  (Lewis  D.  Hayes)  in 
rhyme,  entitling  the  same 

MY  HOT  DISPLEASURE. 

[And  then  I'll  curl  up  like  a  dog  in  a  basket, 
And  drop  sound  asleep  as  a  corpse  in  a  casket.] 

-—Old  Couplet. 
Dear  Hayes: 

I'm  shut  up  in  a  primitive  town 
Where  all  hope  has  gone  up,  and  all  enterprise  down; 
Where  the  meetin'-house  bells  ever  wrangle  and  moan 
From  morning  to  night  in  a  heart-breaking  tone, 
And  the  few  mournful  people  one  sees  on  the  street 
Are  all  wending  their  way  to  some  holy  retreat 


190  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Where  God  is  supposed  to  impatiently  wait 

For  their  coming,  and  greet  them,  enrapt  and  elate 

With  the  "honor"  they  do  Him,  while  bending  the  knee 

And  begging  Him  tearfully  not  to  damn  me, — 

And  here  I  stare  out  through  an  eight-by-ten  pane 

With  my  thoughts  in  the  past  and  my  eyes  in  the  rain ! 

But — well — I've  a  fire  that's  doing  its  best, 

And  a  split-bottom  rocker  offers  me  rest, 

And  a  new  magazine,  and  tobacco  in  stock 

Sufficient  to  last  till  the  peal  of  the  clock 

Of  the  dawn  of  the  morrow  shall  chuckle  me  free 

Of  the  horrors  of  Sunday — God  pitying  me ! 

I'm  not  in  a  mood,  you'll  observe,  that  is  quite 

At  peace  with  the  world,  or  at  war  with  delight, 

Yet  honestly  striving  to  gallantly  bear 

With  the  trials,  disaster,  and  trouble  and  care 

That  is  mine  to  endure.     I  will  murmur  no  more, 

But  lie  to  myself  and  be  glad  as  of  yore. 

The  week  that  is  past  was  a  good  one  to  me, 
And  my  show  well  received  as  a  circus  could  be, — 
The  people  all  tickled — Committees  the  same, 
And  my  praise — like  a  sky-rocket  fired  at  Fame; 
And,  a  moment  ago,  counting  over  the  great 
Fat  roll  in  my  pocket,  Fm  happy  to  state 
I  found  that  I  had,  with  but  little  lack  yet, 
An  opulence  vast  as  the  depths  of  my  debt, 
And  that,  as  I've  promised,  when  settled  entire, 
Will  give  the  right  to  the  rest  I  desire,— 
When  I  may  curl  up  like  a  dog  in  a  basket 
And  drop  sound  asleep  as  a  corpse  in  a  casket. 

J.  W.  R. 

There  was  frost  outside  the  car  windows  and  some 
times  inside,  and  yet  the  road  had  its  compensations, 
acquaintance  with  and  sometimes  the  golden  compan 
ionship  of  distinguished  men,  whom,  without  the  vexa 
tions  of  traveling,  the  poet  had  not  known.  One  day 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     191 

in  the  Empire  State  he  met  Matthew  Arnold.  At  first 
thought,  an  unhappy  situation  might  be  inferred  in 
the  meeting  of  two  men  who  seemed  to  be  at  the 
antipodes  of  social  intercourse.  Just  what  was  Ar 
nold's  opinion  of  the  Hoosier  Poet  is  unknown.  Riley's 
letters  and  conversation  about  the  foreigner  gave  at 
times  a  cartoon  effect.  "A  gaunt,  raw-boned  Brit 
isher,"  he  once  remarked  to  a  reporter,  "with  Scotch 
hair,  Scotch  eyes,  Scotch  complexion,  mutton-chop 
whiskers  and  a  cowcatcher  nose" :  a  contrast  indeed  to 
a  portrait  of  the  Hoosier  at  the  time — "a  short,  robust 
young  man,  with  a  florid  complexion,  large  nose, 
smooth-shaven  face,  blond  hair,  and  very  practical- 
looking,  near-sighted  blue  eyes  behind  a  pair  of 
glasses."  And  yet,  notwithstanding  the  Englishman's 
harsh  features,  supercilious  manners  and  the  report 
that  he  parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  Riley  had  an 
affection  for  him.  "How  the  big,  well-fed  man  with 
his  single  eye-glass  and  pronounced  British  speech," 
said  he,  "could  have  written  anything  so  tender  and 
sympathetic  as  'The  Forsaken  Merman/  it  is  impos 
sible  for  me  to  realize.  Never  again  will  I  trust  to 
appearances."  All  the  same,  Arnold  had  written  it, 
and  it  had  become  for  Riley  a  favorite  poem.  "There 
was,"  Riley  said,  "a  certain  cadence  in  the  lines  which 
softened  the  woes  of  the  road,"  and  many  times  he 
repeated  them — 

"Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow; 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 

Children  dear,  let  us  away. 

This  way,  this  way." 


192  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  travelers  had  a  half-day's  journey  together — 
two  hundred  miles  in  a  railway  car.  Arnold  told  of 
his  experience  in  New  York,  how  he  had  been  to  hear 
Henry  Ward  Beecher,  and  how  he  had  been  so  luxu 
riously  entertained  by  the  Union  League,  the  Century, 
St.  Nicholas  and  Knickerbocker  Clubs.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  work  there.  In  vain  he  had  tried  to 
write  his  lecture  on  Emerson.  The  blaring  publicity 
of  the  city  had  no  parallel.  Interruptions  were  inces 
sant.  "Americans,"  he  said,  "have  no  love  of  quiet. 
They  have  an  abnormal  desire  for  publicity,  must  be 
on  the  go  all  day  long."  This  led  him  to  observe  that 
there  were  no  cabs,  and  no  privacy  in  America  for  a 
gentleman.  "I  go  out  here  to  lecture  in  a  city  at  the 
other  end  of  the  state,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  to  travel 
by  tram  and  before  reaching  my  destination  make 
changes  and  take  the  chance  of  a  walk  in  bad  weather." 
All  of  which  Riley  knew  was  true,  and  yet  he  could 
not  help  having  an  inward  sense  of  satisfaction  that 
this  king  of  letters  from  the  British  Empire  was  be 
coming  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  democracy. 

Riley  remembered  that  about  noon  the  talk  turned 
to  American  literature.  Arnold  praised  Poe  warmly. 
"I  do  not  recall,"  returned  Riley,  "a  single  cheerful 
thing  Poe  ever  wrote.  Has  a  man  any  right  to  blot 
hope  out  of  this  world?  That  is  all  we  have.  Prob 
ably  Longfellow  had  as  many  doubts  and  fears  as  Poe, 
but  he  did  not  voice  them  in  his  verse.  Poetry  should 
deal  with  bright  and  beautiful  things." 

Riley  fancied  that  he  had  in  this  made  a  center  shot, 
but  the  face  of  his  British  acquaintance,  he  said,  was 
"as  cold  and  inexpressive  as  an  iceberg  at  anchor  in 
the  Strait  of  Belle  Isle."  (He  had  not  the  slightest 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     193 

notion  of  the  location  of  Belle  Isle,  but  it  was  a  high- 
sounding  simile  and  that  was  sufficient.) 

Riley's  experience  with  Arnold  was  unique.  He 
promptly  wrote  Myron  Reed  about  it  from  the 

Tremont  House,  Boston.    (January,  1884.) 
My  dear  Reed : 

I  don't  know  whether  you  will  like  Matthew  Arnold 
or  not — I  know  you  like  some  things  he  has  written. 
Two  or  three  days  ago  I  met  him,  coming  out  of  New 
York  into  Binghampton,  and  had  some  opportunity  to 
inspect  him — my  way. 

He  is  English  thoroughly,  though  quite  Scotch  in 
appearance.  Until  you  hear  him  speak  you  would  say 
Scotch.  A  tall,  strong  face,  with  a  basement-story 
chin,  and  an  eye  eager,  unconscious,  restless ;  gray  and 
not  large.  A  heavy  man  physically,  though  not  of 
extra  flesh — simply,  a  fine  manly  skeleton  properly 
draped.  He  is  self-sufficient,  and  yet  trying  to  do  bet 
ter,  on  his  own  advice,  not  at  all  snobbish,  and  yet 
with  hardly  enough  vanity  to  stand  the  criticism.  He 
is  a  marked  combination  of  learning,  fancy  and  mat 
ter-of-fact.  An  hour  before  we  became  acquainted 
I  inspected  him  and  saw  his  colossal  mind  lost  in  the 
lore  of  the  railroad  guide  the  same  as  if  it  were  Homer 
in  the  original  text.  I  noticed,  too,  that  when  he 
bought  a  three-cent  paper,  he  took  back  his  two-cent 
change  and  put  it  away  as  carefully  as  he  would  a  five- 
pound  note.  He  is  poor,  however,  and  I  mention  this 
only  as  an  instance  of  a  national  characteristic  which 
may  perhaps  have  been  inherited — only  in  these  "God- 
bless-us-every-one"  times  I  could  but  remark  in  mental 
aside,  "  'Tis  very  good  to  be  American !" 

He  seemed  greatly  pleased  with  all  he  saw  and  spoke 
honestly  of  his  surprise  at  the  country  he  found  here. 
Was  utterly  stolid,  however,  and  enjoyed  it  all  like 
working  a  sum.  Didn't  parade  himself — and  wore 
arctics  and  never  forgot  his  umbrella.  Much  of  the 


194  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

time,  too,  he  was  studying  his  lecture — in  printed 
form — and  ignoring  the  dailies  that  were  having  so 
much  to  say  about  him.  I  think  he  has  no  sense  of 
humor  whatever.  A  joke  that  tackled  him,  would 
hide  its  head  in  shame,  and  skulk  away  and  weep. 

Riley's  admiration  for  Arnold  was  hardly  to  be 
expected,  and  yet  as  weeks  passed  it  was  deepened. 
"I  like  him,"  he  said  for  publication  in  Kansas  City 
a  month  after  meeting  him ;  "I  like  him  for  his  sturdy 
grandeur."  He  admired  his  courageous  adherence  to 
the  old  law  that  moral  causes  govern  the  standing  and 
falling  of  men  and  nations.  On  reaching  America, 
Arnold  had  given  his  lecture  on  "Numbers"  in  Chick- 
ering  Hall,  New  York.  He  had  talked  plainly  about 
society  in  England  and  the  United  States.  He  deplored 
the  madness  of  the  multitude.  The  multitude  was 
affording  the  means  for  their  own  destruction.  It 
was  clear  to  him  that  the  majority  were  unsound.  The 
unsound  majority  had  been  the  ruin  of  Greece  and 
Rome  and  would  be  the  ruin  of  England  and  America. 
Riley  in  his  lecture  was  talking  to  his  audience  about 
the  educational  advance  of  "the  swarming  millions," 
and  how  they  were  being  "led  along  to  the  highest 
altitudes  of  light"  by  our  educational  institutions.  To 
Arnold  the  question  was  a  deeper  one.  The  education 
of  the  masses  was  essential,  but  unless  they  were 
transformed  they  could  not  finally  stand.  Myron  Reed 
was  in  the  habit  of  quoting  Lincoln  to  Riley  that  "the 
people  wabble  right."  It  was  clear  to  Arnold  that  they 
often  wabbled  wrong.  Wabbling  wrong  meant  their 
doom.  Educational  institutions  alone  could  not  trans 
form  them.  Why  flatter  the  college  and  the  university, 
since  but  a  minute  fragment  of  the  population  is 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     195 

reached  by  them?  Neglect  and  evasion  were  wicked. 
There  was  no  dodging  the  issue.  The  majority  was 
unsound. 

As  Riley  went  from  town  to  town  he  did  not  join  in 
the  criticism  of  Arnold  or  the  cries  of  the  newspapers 
against  him.  It  was  good,  he  thought,  for  Americans 
to  face  the  facts. 

As  the  lecture  engagements  increased,  there  was 
alarm  in  certain  quarters  over  what  was  termed  "the 
greed  for  pelf."  Arnold  was  violently  attacked  for 
lecturing  for  "filthy  lucre."  Josh  Billings  escaped  the 
fire  by  telling  the  newspapers  that  he  "lectured  for 
nothing  with  one  hundred  dollars  thrown  in."  Mam 
mon,  it  was  said,  was  getting  his  clutches  on  the 
Hoosier  Poet.  "With  all  due  respect  to  the  recognized 
genius  of  J.  W.  Riley,"  wrote  a  critic,  "we  are  sorry 
to  see  him  prostituting  it  upon  the  stage.  He  is  not 
an  actor,  and  but  an  ordinary  mimic.  He  lacks  both 
voice  and  physique,  important  factors  when  a  man 
faces  an  audience.  Then,  he  does  not  improve.  His 
bear  story  and  peanut  lesson  are  growing  just  a  little 
stale.  They  will  hardly  wear  like  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He 
reads  well,  yet  the  late  Artemus  Ward  was  greatly  his 
superior.  Riley  is  a  genuine  poet  and  a  writer  of 
strong  and  original  prose.  His  place  is  among  the 
magazines  of  the  country,  and  there  he  can  make  his 
mark,  and  stand  with  Holland,  Howells  and  other 
novelists,  and  with  Swinburne,  Stedman,  Taylor  and 
other  poets  of  wide  reputation,  and  in  years  may  ap 
proach  Whittier  and  Longfellow.  But  his  desire  to 
make  money  has  overbalanced  his  better  judgment. 
We  are  proud  of  Riley,  and  hope  the  day  is  not  far 
distant  when  he  will  see  the  error  of  his  way." 


196  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  ovations  he  received  on  his  last  reading  tour, 
twenty  years  later,  refute  the  charge  that  he  was  not 
a  success  on  the  stage.  His  "Object  Lesson"  did  wear 
like  Rip  Van  Winkle.  Had  the  writer  accused  him  of 
bowing  to  Mammon  at  a  later  period,  he  might  have 
had  grounds  for  his  conclusion,  but  to  say  it  back  there 
in  the  'eighties  was  to  interpret  falsely.  Then,  for 
Riley,  the  daily  question  was,  how  to  make  a  living 
while  writing  poetry.  He  was  weary  of  dependence, 
and  the  "perpetuity  of  old  accounts, — grisly  old  ones/' 
he  said,  "that  had  been  handed  down  through  the  ages 
from  the  panic  of  1873."  He  wanted  to  be  known  as 
solvent — "put  off  all  foreign  support  and  stand  alone/' 
Returns  from  his  readings  varied  from  thirty  to  sixty 
dollars  a  night.  Little  was  left  after  deducting  the 
Bureau's  commission  and  expenses.  Often  there  was 
a  long  distance  between  engagements.  His  profits 
vanished  in  railroad  fares.  "My  next  lecture  is  at 
Weeping  Water,  Nebraska,"  he  once  moaned,  two  hun 
dred  miles  from  his  destination.  "I  have  every  assur 
ance  that  my  appearance  there  will  make  it  all  its  name 
implies." 

There  were  the  losses  from  stormy  nights  and  "bad 
business,"  and  requests  for  lower  terms  for  a  second 
reading  to  make  up  for  the  deficit  on  the  first.  One 
committee,  however,  which  had  lost  fifteen  dollars, 
was  content  with  an  autograph. 


'Jes'  my  ortograph,  you  say, 
Will  pay  all  I  owe  you — eh? 
Only  wish  'at  I  could  pay 
All  my  old  debts  that-away! 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES    197 

"Cross  my  heart!  and  'onner  bright! 
I'd  stay  'way  from  Church  to-night, 
And  set  down  and  write  and  write 
Clean  from  now  till  plum  daylight!" 

The  profit  from  his  Old  Swimmin'-Hole  and  'Lev-en 
More  Poems  was  also  light.  No  royalty  check  of 
four  thousand  dollars  came  to  him  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
four  as  it  did  to  his  "dear  old  Mark  Twain." 

The  charge  that  Riley  was  prostituting  his  genius 
on  the  stage  was  a  more  serious  one.  No  one  knew 
better  than  he  the  damaging  effect  of  travel  and  its 
attendant  evils  on  the  poetic  impulse.  He  was  em 
phatically  of  the  opinion  that  "mentality  is  at  its  low 
est  ebb  in  a  railway  station."  How  could  a  man  write 
poetry  when  "darting  up  and  down  and  round  the 
country  like  a  Water  bug !"  Traveling  had  also,  in  his 
opinion,  a  painful  effect  on  conduct.  "You  see,  aside 
from  new  complexities  of  work,"  he  wrote  a  friend, 
asking  her  to  forgive  his  untidy  scrawling,  "I  am 
corresponding  with  a  Bureau;  and  through  elevations 
of  hope  and  depressions  of  doubt  and  suspense,  am 
kept  dancing  up  and  down  like  the  vacillating  bal 
ance  of  an  apothecary's  scales.  I  can  think  of  noth 
ing  but  myself  in  reality,  though  I  have  to  affect  such 
poems  as  this,  ["The  Dead  Wife"],  just  handed  to  the 
printer  half  an  hour  ago.  But  do  not  judge  from  it 
that  I  was  ever  married,  since,  fortunately  for  my 
wife  that  might  have  been,  I  never  was;  for,  at  times 
and  oftentim.es,  I  am  a  very  disagreeable  young  man. 
Nothing  in  earth  or  heaven,  I  almost  think,  would  sat 
isfy  me  then." 


198  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Two  years  later  he  wrote  the  friend  again:  "My 
holidays  have  not  been  opulent  with  gifts,  for  I  have 
been  thrown  and  tossed  about  most  carelessly  by  cir 
cumstance,  having  to  fill  these  wretched,  but  most 
blessed  lecture  engagements,  in  which  I  am  forced  to 
forego  all  personal  desires  and  hopes  and  simply  be  an 
automaton  till  the  curtain  falls  on  the  last  poor  act, 
my  friend,  and  the  season's  quit — quiet — dead  and 
buried/' 

And  by  a  season  usually  was  meant  a  division  of 
time  less  than  a  spring  or  a  summer.  After  a  few 
weeks  of  fatigue  and  exasperation,  his  conscience  the 
while  "tearing  away  at  his  heart  like  a  leopard" — he 
would  begin  to  curse  the  interruptions.  "God  Al 
mighty  knows,"  he  would  moan,  "I  do  not  deserve 
them.  The  switching  and  hooting  of  freight  trains, 
and  the  rumbling  of  Pittsburgh  Specials  and  Man 
hattan  Limiteds  can  provide  more  disaster  for  a  poet 
in  one  hour  than  solitude  yields  in  a  year.  He  does 
not  have  to  court  calamities.  Street  crossings  and 
railroads  breed  them  faster  than  carrion  hatches  flies." 
The  result  of  such  wailings  was  of  course  a  curtailing 
of  Bureau  engagements,  and  a  return  to  Indianapolis 
and  the  quiet  of  the  "Dead  Rose"  or  the  "Crow's 
Nest." 

It  would  be  incorrect  to  conclude  that  the  road  did 
not  yield  poems.  It  did.  The  poet  wrote  them  in  spite 
of  the  interruptions.  "Take  your  time,"  wrote  a  maga 
zine  editor.  "Well,  now,  my  dear  man,"  answered 
Riley,  "I  can  not  take  time  to  do  anything.  I  am 
running  round  Indiana  like  a  case  of  ringworm.  Be 
sides,  I  know  not  how  many  Decoration  poems  and  a 
college  oration,  I  have  all  my  regular  work  to  do, 


ON  THE  PLATFORM  IN  THE  'EIGHTIES     199 

which  just  has  to  be  done.  When  your  letter  came  I 
could  not  sleep.  So  I  wrote  this  conceit  [a  poem] 
which  I  have  hunched  and  stabbed  and  punched  and 
jabbed  into  present  shape  on  the  train  since  five 
o'clock  this  morning." 

Several  of  the  "Boone  County  poems"  were  begun 
"away  from  home."  Many  ideas  for  them  came 
through  car  windows  from  barnyards  and  cornfields. 
They  were  not  written  to  order,  nor  were  they  pro 
duced  immediately  preceding  their  appearance  in  the 
Journal.  It  was  pure  fiction  that  the  poet,  under  pres 
sure  of  the  managing  editor,  went  to  the  desk  one  even 
ing  and  "dashed  off  a  poem  in  time  to  keep  a  theater 
engagement."  Part  of  "My  Philosofy,"  (the  first  of 
the  series  in  order  of  production)  was  written  at  night 
in  a  country  tavern  after  a  public  reading.  The  poet 
had  seen  a  bully  in  the  lobby,  whose  swaggering  and 
faultfinding  had  been  an  offense  to  a  mild  old  shop 
keeper.  The  latter's  comments  were  too  worthy  to  be 
lost.  Going  to  his  room,  Riley  reduced  them  to  rhyme : 

"The  signs  is  bad  when  folks  commence 
A-findin*  fault  with  Providence, 
And  balkin'  'cause  the  earth  don't  shake 
At  ev'ry  prancin'  step  they  take. 
No  man  is  grate  tel  he  can  see 
How  less  than  little  he  would  be 
Ef  stripped  to  self,  and  stark  and  bare 
He  hung  his  sign  out  anywhare. 

"My  doctern  is  to  lay  aside 
Contensions,  and  be  satisfied: 
Jest  do  your  best,  and  praise  er  blame 
That  f oilers  that,  counts  jest  the  same. 


200  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

I've  allus  noticed  grate  success 
Is  mixed  with  troubles,  more  er  less, 
And  it's  the  man  who  does  his  best 
That  gits  more  kicks  than  all  the  rest." 

All  in  all,  the  experience  on  the  road  had  been  of 
surpassing  value.  By  voice  and  pen  he  had  been  "res 
cuing  from  oblivion,"  the  disappearing  vernacular  of 
the  frontier,  and  the  thought  of  an  age  in  Indiana  that 
was  fast  passing  away.  By  degrees  he  had  so  per 
fected  his  recitations  that  there  was  little  left  for  any 
thing  but  applause.  On  every  hand  was  flattering  evi 
dence  of  his  growing  popularity.  "He  interprets  with 
sympathy  and  insight,"  said  an  intellectual  observer, 
"those  little  things  to  which  the  rest  of  us  are  blind. 
Always  hereafter  we  shall  like  his  readings  for  what 
he  has  written,  and  his  writings  for  what  he  has  read." 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK 

ONE  evening  in  August,  1883,  a  score  of  happy 
Hoosiers  drove  from  Delphi,  along  the  road  up 
Deer  Creek,  to  Camden,  where  their  favorite 
poet  gave  his  lecture  on  "Characteristics  of  Western 
Humor."  After  the  lecture  his  friends  bought  copies 
of  The  Old  Sivimmin'-Hole,  on  sale  at  the  door,  and 
returned  with  the  poet  to  Delphi,  where  a  week  later 
he  repeated  the  lecture  to  a  charming  audience  of 
Delphians.  Never  before  had  the  people  of  that  region 
found  a  man  who  could  so  happily  interpret  so  many 
different  phases  of  humanity  in  a  manner  so  master 
ful.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Riley's  frequent  visits  to 
Carroll  County.  In  the  immediate  years  to  come,  the 
region  had  a  decided  influence  on  his  production  of 
verse.  It  also  influenced  his  reputation  on  the  plat 
form. 

For  the  fourth  time  in  four  years  he  had  the  honor 
of  filling  the  Baptist  Church  in  Franklin,  Massachu 
setts.  After  his  last  reading  his  audience  left  the 
church  with  some  very  catchy  lines  on  their  lips: 

"Well!   I  never  seen  the  ocean  ner  I  never  seen  the 

sea. 
On  the  banks  o'  Deer  Crick's  grand  enough  fer  me!" 

At  lectures  afterward,  in  towns  between  New  England 
and  Nebraska,  he  was  sometimes  introduced  as  the 

201 


202  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"Bard  of  Deer  Creek."  He  rather  enjoyed  it.  In  no 
sense  was  he  a  bard  of  the  city.  As  has  been  seen  he 
loved  to  make  some  odd  character  the  mouthpiece  for 
his  verse.  Near  Delphi  he  found  a  farmer,  whose 
Eden  was  on  Deer  Creek,  and  from  whom  he  caught 
the  refrain:  "On  the  banks  of  Deer  Creek  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

Scarcely  had  he  reached  his  destination  when  he 
told  George  Hitt  and  the  Journal  of  his  good  for 
tune  : 

Delphi,  Indiana,  August  27,  1883. 
Dear  George: 

Had  a  big  house  and  big  time  at  Camden,  and  a 
first-class  success  seems  assured  here.  Shut  up  at 
work  as  you  are,  I  feel  altogether  unworthy  of  the  rest 
and  peace  that  has  fallen  on  me.  Every  day  a  long 
invigorating  breath,  the  graciousness  of  which  I  am 
sure  no  seacoast  could  rival;  and  every  day  a  drive 
with  my  friend  to  his  farm  seven  or  eight  miles  in  the 
country.  And  every  day  I  wish  I  had  come  here 
months  ago,  and  yearn  to  stay  months  longer. 
As  ever  Faithfully  and  always  Yours, 

JAMESY. 

It  was  said  that  Riley  fished  along  Deer  Creek  from 
the  Wabash  to  Bachelor's  Run.  "I  never  held  a  pole 
an  hour  the  whole  time  I  spent  there,"  he  declared. 
The  facts  were  he  was  fishing  for  poems  and  he  found 
them,  such  as  "The  Boys,"  "A  Poor  Man's  Wealth," 
"The  Beautiful  City,"  "The  Blossoms  in  the  Trees," 
"Wet-Weather  Talk,"  "Knee-Deep  in  June,"  and  a 
score  more.  True  he  found  them  in  his  imagination 
and  memory,  and  sometimes  he  finished  them  in  In 
dianapolis  or  Greenfield,  but  they  originated  on  Deer 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        203 

Creek.  The  stream  and  its  vicinity  awakened  the 
"songs  of  long  ago."  There  were  winding  miles  of 
country  roads,  bordered  by  little  orchards,  clover  fields, 
and  the  dark  retreats  of  forest  trees — majestic  elms, 
beech,  walnut,  hickory,  ash  and  sycamore  still  stand 
ing.  Red  apples  "burned  in  the  tangled  grass"  as  the 
poet  had  seen  them  in  childhood.  The  cider  press 
blended  its  chuckle  with  the  lowing  of  cows  and  the 
droning  of  the  bees. 

"If  there  was  no  opportunity  to  go  to  Delphi,"  said 
Riley,  "I  made  one.  It  was  a  refuge  from  the  swelter 
ing  heat  of  the  city.  My  friend,  Doctor  Wyckliffe 
Smith,  gave  me  a  warm,  full-chested  welcome.  He 
belonged  to  the  Old  Settlers'  Association,  and  knew 
the  history  of  families  in  that  region  from  the  time 
their  neighbors  were  reptiles,  wolves  and  Indians.  He 
was  a  jovial,  whole-souled  man.  He  lived  solely  for 
the  benefit  of  others.  His  largeness  of  heart  was  not 
bounded  by  Carroll  County.  In  our  Spanish  War  it 
reached  to  the  hospitals  and  battle-fields  of  Cuba." 

Riley  chants  the  praise  of  his  "Delphian  Oracle"  in 
his  poem,  "From  Delphi  to  Camden" — a  ride  with  his 
friend  on  a  rainy  night: 

"While  the  master  and  commander — the  brave  knight 

he  galloped  with 
On  his  reckless  ride  to  ruin  or  to  fame  was — Dr. 

Smith." 

The  reckless  ride  suggested  or  rather  awakened  out 
of  memory  another  poem,  "Billy  Could  Ride."  Substi 
tute  Riley  for  Billy  and  the  reader  has  a  picture  of  a 
Greenfield  incident  in  the  Grant  and  Colfax  campaign, 
when  Riley  and  other  young  men  rode  behind  a  slow 


204  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

three-mile  "delegation"  on  the  old  National  Road, — 
when  he,  in  a  fit  of  impatience  on  a  prancing  chestnut 
mare,  whipped  suddenly  forward  into  town: 

"And  to  see  him  dashing  out  of  the  line 
At  the  edge  of  the  road  and  down  the  side 
Of  the  long  procession,  all  laws  defied, 
And  the  fife  and  drums,  was  a  sight  divine 
To  the  girls,  in  their  white-and-spangled  pride, 
Wearily  waving  their  scarfs  about 
In  the  great  'Big  Wagon/  all  gilt  without 
And  jolt  within,  as  they  lumbered  on 
Into  the  town  where  Billy  had  gone 
An  hour  ahead,  like  a  knightly  guide — 
0  but  the  way  that  Billy  could  ride!" 

While  riding  with  the  Doctor  at  another  time,  Riley 
called  one  evening  at  the  quaint  home  of  a  German 
farmer,  whose  garden  and  orchard,  late  that  night, 
blossomed  in  "Herr  Weiser,"  the  initial  poem  in  After- 
whiles.  He  had  discovered  another  dear  old  man — 
the  picture  of  unassuming  honesty,  a  hale  countryman 
"reflecting  the  sunshine." 

Political  excitement  in  the  summer  and  fall  of  1884 
was  intense.  "The  people  down  here,"  wrote  a  lecture 
committee  of  Cambridge  City,  Indiana,  "are  going  to 
elect  Blaine."  Postponement  of  Riley's  lecture  there 
and  elsewhere  until  after  the  campaign,  gave  him  an 
other  interval  of  peace  and  quiet  on  Deer  Creek.  Early 
in  the  summer  he  had  gone  there  for  another  reason — 
the  absence  of  The  Thousandth  Man  from  Indian 
apolis,  "which,"  he  said,  "made  the  whole  heart  faint 
and  lonesome."  "Myron  W.  Reed,"  he  wrote  a  friend, 
"is  about  leaving  his  church  here  for  other  fields,  and 
the  city  generally  is  in  mourning.  What  a  good  man 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        205 

he  is — and  how  Burns  would  have  loved  him !  I  have 
tried  to  write  him  a  poem,  'Our  Kind  of  a  Man/  "  At 
once  the  poem  began  its  cruise  in  the  newspapers,  com 
ing  to  anchor  afterward  in  Afterwhiles.  Near  friends 
described  the  life-history  of  the  preacher  in  the  first 
six  lines: 

"The  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me ! 
He  faces  the  world  unflinchingly, 
And  smites,  as  long  as  the  wrong  resists, 
With  a  knuckled  faith  and  force  like  fists: 
He  lives  the  life  he  is  preaching  of, 
And  loves  where  most  is  the  need  of  love." 

The  next  summer  (1885)  the  wires  brought  from 
Mt.  McGregor  the  news  of  the  death  of  General  Grant. 
For  two  weeks  the  republic  wore  the  emblems  of 
mourning,  and  Delphi,  with  the  other  communities, 
bowed  its  head  in  grief.  Memorial  services  were  held 
in  the  Skating  Rink,  a  gathering  of  three  thousand 
people  "with  four  times  as  many  outside,"  who  could 
not  gain  entrance.  On  the  afternoon  of  August  eighth, 
while  the  burial  service  was  being  read  over  the  dead 
warrior,  the  Delphi  audience  listened  to  an  address  by 
Judge  J.  H.  Gould  and  a  poem  by  Whitcomb  Riley, 
entitled  "At  Rest,"  prepared  for  the  occasion  and  read 
with  impressive  effect.  (In  Afterwhiles  it  received 
the  simple  title,  "Grant") 

Riley  was  chosen  spontaneously  to  voice  the  feeling 
of  the  people.  "Imbued  with  patriotic  spirit,"  it  was 
said,  "J.  W.  Riley  is  the  Indianian  above  all  others  to 
put  in  verse  the  tribute  of  our  state  to  the  memory  of 
the  great  soldier."  He  was  the  people's  choice — but 
thereby  came  vexation  to  the  poet.  "The  very 


206  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

seconds  of  the  clock/'  he  said,  "piled  in  heaps  of  misery 
around  me." 

It  was  one  of  the  rare  instances  when  Riley  suc 
ceeded  in  writing  a  poem  to  order.  But  writing  it 
was  like  reaching  a  result  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  its  delivery,  Judge 
Gould  found  Riley  in  his  room  with  papers,  books,  and 
pencil-notes  scattered  right  and  left  on  the  floor.  "For 
days,"  said  the  judge,  "Riley  had  been  in  agony.  His 
eyes  were  abnormally  large;  he  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  failure."  It  had  been  the  literal  truth  that 
he  could  not  see  daylight.  He  had  not  dared  to  go  out 
on  the  street  for  fresh  air  and  sunlight.  "It  was  the 
rule  of  General  Grant,"  said  Riley  to  the  program 
committee  in  the  evening,  "to  be  ready,  and  here  I  am 
with  to-morrow  calling  for  'copy' — not  ready.  When 
the  General  had  done  his  best  he  could  leave  a  thing, 
commit  all  to  Providence.  I  can  not  leave  a  thing, 
most  certainly  not  when  that  thing  is  a  poem.  I  am 
driven — harnessed  to  my  charge.  I  can  not  rest.  I 
think  now  the  poem  is  finished,  but  midnight  will  call 
me  from  bed  to  make  a  change." 

For  inspiration,  while  writing  the  poem,  Riley  read 
Tennyson's  ode  to  the  great  Lord  Wellington.  Par 
ticularly  he  repeated: 

"Our  greatest,  yet  with  least  pretense, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  Captain  of  his  time 
Rich  in  saving  common  sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime." 

He  had  also  a  sentiment  about  Sir  Launcelot  from 
The  Age  of  Chivalry,  which  afterward  became  the 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK,  BELOVED  SCENERY  WHICH  INSPIRED 
"KNEE-DEEP  IN  JUNE,"  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


OLD  SETTLERS'  MEETING  AT  OAKLANDON,  MARION  COUNTY, 
INDIANA — 1878 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        207 

introductory  note  to  the  poem,  how  the  knight  re 
turned  from  the  wide  wild  forest,  unlaced  his  helmet, 
and  ungirdled  his  sword,  and  laid  him  down  to  sleep 
upon  his  shield.  But  most  of  all,  Riley  cherished  his 
own  lines,  his  vision  of  the  boyhood  of  the  Silent  Man, 
a  youth  with  the  courage  of  his  emotions: 

"A  brave  lad,  wearing  a  manly  brow, 

Knit  as  with  problems  of  grave  dispute, 
And  a  face,  like  the  bloom  of  the  orchard  bough, 

Pink  and  pallid,  but  resolute; 
And  flushed  it  grows  as  the  clover-bloom, 

And  fresh  it  gleams  as  the  morning  dew, 
As  he  reins  his  steed  where  the  quick  quails  boom 

Up  from  the  grasses  he  races  through. 

"And  does  he  dream  of  the  Warrior's  fame — 

This  Western  boy  in  his  rustic  dress  ? 
For,  in  miniature,  this  is  the  man  that  came 

Riding  out  of  the  Wilderness! 
The  selfsame  figure — the  knitted  brow — 

The  eyes  full  steady — the  lips  full  mute — 
And  the  face,  like  the  bloom  of  the  orchard  bough, 

Pink  and  pallid,  but  resolute." 

Ignorance  of  Riley's  method  of  composition  pre 
vailed  in  Delphi  as  in  Greenfield  and  Indianapolis. 
He  "opened  his  dark  sayings  on  the  harp,"  but  his 
friends  failed  to  comprehend  him.  In  August  "On 
the  Banks  o'  Deer  Crick"  was  printed  in  the  Delphi 
Times.  "When  did  he  write  it?"  they  asked,  know 
ing  how  he  had  been  absorbed  in  the  Grant  poem.  He 
was  contributing  regularly  to  the  Journal — such 
poems  as  "Griggsby's  Station,"  "Ike  Walton's  Prayer," 
"Curly  Locks,"  "Billy  Could  Ride"  and  "Dave  Field." 
When  did  he  write  them?  The  truth  was  he  did  not 


208  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

originate  them  then.  He  answered  the  call  for  "copy" 
from  his  budget  of  poems,  some  of  them  new,  others 
weeks  or  a  year  old.  "The  Banks  o*  Deer  Crick"  was 
written  two  months  before  it  was  printed.  He  wanted 
"to  caress  it"  a  while — "love  it  all  alone."  At  the 
Pioneer  Picnic,  a  week  after  the  Memorial  service,  he 
read  a  long  poem  to  a  crowd  as  large  as  that  which 
gathered  in  memory  of  Grant,  Again  the  question, 
When  did  he  write  it?  He  wrote  it  seven  years  before 
and  read  it  at  the  Reunion  of  Old  Settlers,  at  Oakland, 
Indiana.  Pioneer  Day  two  months  later  (October, 
1878),  appearing  on  the  program  with  Mrs.  Sarah  T. 
Bolton,  he  read  it  again  at  the  old  Indiana  State  Fair 
Grounds.  Twelve  years  later  part  of  the  poem  was 
detached  and  entitled  "A  Child's  Home — Long  Ago" 
for  Rhymes  of  Childhood. 

In  appreciation  of  what  the  poet  had  done  for  Car 
roll  County — in  reality  what  he  had  done  for  the  good 
name  of  Indiana — the  citizens  of  Delphi,  "desiring  to 
do  the  square  thing,"  tendered  him  a  public  benefit, 
a  reception  at  the  Opera  House.  It  was  a  memorable 
evening,  the  poet  was  at  his  best  in  his  recitations  and 
everybody  satisfied — with  one  exception.  The  night 
of  the  benefit  Riley  slept,  as  he  sometimes  did,  in  Doc 
tor  Smith's  office,  in  a  little  room  separated  by  a  thin 
partition,  half-way  to  the  ceiling,  from  the  main  office. 
The  next  morning  a  woman  called  at  the  office  while 
Riley  was  still  sleeping.  She  had  a  biting  tongue  and 
a  prejudice  against  all  forms  of  entertainment,  and 
the  Doctor  knew  it.  Here  was  his  chance  to  get  even 
with  the  poet  for  some  practical  joke  Riley  had  played 
on  him.  After  prescribing  for  his  patient,  he  said  as 
she  rose  to  go: 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        209 

"By  the  way,  did  you  hear  Riley  last  night?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Did  you  ever  waste  money  so  recklessly  before?" 
asked  the  Doctor,  contributing  to  the  severity  of  the 
criticism  he  was  certain  would  follow. 

"I  never  did,"  said  she.  "The  Hoosier  Poet  comes 
up  here  to  our  town  sponsored  by  Billings,  Mark 
Twain  and  Longfellow.  Burdette  says  he  is  pure 
gold;  I  say  he  is  pure  gabble.  If  I  had  my  money 
back—-" 

Scarcely  had  she  uttered  the  words  when  flip  over 
the  partition  came  a  silver  half-dollar,  which  landed 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  In  their  joint  astonishment 
the  Doctor  picked  it  up,  very  suavely  handed  it  to  her, 
and  she  left  the  office  wondering  where  it  had  come 
from. 

In  a  few  moments  Riley  came  through  the  parti 
tion. 

"Well— well,"  smiled  the  Doctor,  "I  did  not  know 
you  were  awake." 

"I  was  not  awake,"  drawled  Riley  wearily,  "but 
there  are  times — there  are  times — when  suffering 
from  nightmare — that  I — that  I  reach  my  trousers — 
and  my  pocketbook — in  my  sleep." 

At  Delphi  the  poet  planned  his  second  book,  The 
Boss  Girl,  a  title  he  was  afterward  as  much  ashamed 
of  as  at  first  he  was  proud.  The  second  edition  of 
The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole  had  been  going  well  and  he 
had  been  mailing  copies  to  authors  "in  domestic  and 
foreign  lands."  One  copy  at  least  reached  Great 
Britain  as  is  seen  from  his  letter  to  the  English 
poet: 


210  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Indiana,  U.  S.  A.,  March  17,  1885. 
Mr.  Robert  Browning. 
Dear  Sir: 

"From  his  poems,  as  I  take  it,  Robert  Browning  is 
a  brave  intrepid  man.  No  fear  but  he  can  face  your 
book  and  never  flinch!" 

So  a  sound,  but  oftentimes  facetious  friend  said  to 
me  yesterday,  and  so  I  send  you  the  book.  It  is  a 
small  collection  of  American  dialectic  poems,  or 
rhymes  rather,  in  the  "Hopsier"  idiom — the  same  as 
faithfully  reproduced  as  a  lifetime's  acquaintance  with 
a  simple,  wholesome  people  and  their  quaint  vernacu 
lar  enables  me  to  portray  it.  For  years  I  have  be 
lieved  that  unused  poetical  material  in  fairly  rich 
veins  lies  in  this  country  region,  and  a  music  too,  how 
ever  rude,  in  the  quaint  speech  of  the  people.  In  the 
specimen  I  beg  you  to  accept,  should  you  find  even 
trivial  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  theory  I  shall  be 
glad. 

God  bless  you,  sir,  and  believe  me,  from  years  prior 
to  this,  and  now,  and  on  and  on, 

Your  friend, 

JAMES  W.  RILEY. 

He  had  found  abundant  poetical  material  on  Deer 
Creek,  and  had  been  making  use  of  it,  but  it  was 
fresh  from  the  mint — not,  in  his  judgment,  the  kind 
of  material  for  a  new  book.  "A  new  book  must  con 
tain  old  productions,"  by  which  he  meant  poems  or 
sketches  that  had  been  written  months  or  years  be 
fore.  After  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  "final  revision" 
they  were  more  likely  to  ring  true.  Then  too  that 
was  by  nature  Riley's  way  of  doing  things — keeping 
up  the  wires  between  him  and  his  heaven  of  existence, 
the  Long  Ago.  Not  only  his  first  and  second  book  but 
all  his  books,  with  rare  exception,  were  made  in  that 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        211 

way.  It  was  not  his  fashion  to  sit  down  and  say,  I 
will  write  me  a  book.  He  compiled  it  from  what  he 
had  already  written  and  revised  it  most  rigorously 
unless  prevented  by  the  demands  of  the  platform. 
"Going  over  the  trunks  and  boxes  and  old  nail  kegs 
and  beehives,"  he  wrote  George  Hitt,  "I  have  dug  out 
enough  stuff  for  three  or  four  books.  Am  in  splendid 
kelter  and  inclination  for  work,  and  believe  I  am 
sound  now  for  years — nerves  shattered — but  heart 
and  soul  shipshape  and  eye  serene  and  steadfast  fac 
ing  the  guns." 

In  The  Boss  Girl,  consisting  of  ten  poems  and  ten 
prose  sketches,  Riley  went  back  for  copy  as  far  as 
"Fame"  and  "The  Remarkable  Man,"  back  nine  years, 
to  February,  1877.  The  sketch  which  gave  the  book 
its  title  had  been  so  popular  in  the  Indianapolis  Jour 
nal,  that  the  issue  had  been  exhausted.  Readers  could 
not  forget  the  "boss  girl's"  dismal  room  with  its 
smoky  lamp  and  broken  doors — her  wasted  hands,  her 
haggard  face,  and  the  dark  star-purity  of  her  lumin 
ous  eyes.  There  also  in  cherished  memory  was  the 
elf  child,  the  little  pixy-form  of  Mary  Alice  Smith  on 
the  stairway. 

The  poet  had  determined  on  the  character  of  the 
book  at  Delphi.  Returning  to  Indianapolis  he  experi 
mented  several  days  on  an  illustration,  a  design  for 
the  paper-back  cover.  In  this  he  was  assisted  by 
Booth  Tarkington,  then  a  youth  to  Princeton  and 
Monsieur  Beaucaire  unknown. 

Once  a  week  in  those  days,  the  poet  strolled  "up 
town"  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Tarkington  house 
hold,  where,  by  telling  stories  of  books  he  had  read, 
and  acting  scenes  from  them,  he  kept  his  little  audi- 


212  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ence  chuckling  and  laughing  by  the  hour.  "One 
night,"  writes  Tarkington  (the  boy  in  the  genial  pic 
ture),  "the  poet  came  to  the  boy's  house  in  a  state  of 
unusual  gaiety  over  a  book  he  was  going  to  have  pub 
lished — his  first  book  to  be  printed  over  his  own  name. 
That  night  the  poet  drew  a  design  for  the  cover,  an  ink 
bottle  mounted  like  a  cannon  and  firing  a  charge  of 
ink  which  formed,  in  explosion,  the  letters  in  the  list 
of  titles  for  the  sketches.  The  poet  seemed  anxious 
to  know  how  the  boy  liked  the  design ;  and  the  boy, 
encouraged  to  add  something,  drew  an  imp  leaning 
down  out  of  the  cloud  with  a  quill  pen  in  his  hand,  the 
pen  firing  the  touchhole  of  the  ink-bottle  cannon ;  and 
thus  the  cover  was  printed  and  that  boy  insufferably 
puffed  up." 

This  book  marks  the  beginning  of  the  poet's  good 
fortune  with  his  publishers  (now  The  Bobbs-Merrill 
Company).  A  little  circular  issued  by  them  at  the 
time  suggests  the  cordial  relation  between  them  and 
the  poet,  which  was  never  broken. 

THE    BOSS     GIRL 
A  Christmas  Story 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES 

By 

James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
Author  of  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole." 

It  gives  us  much  pleasure  to  announce  that  on  De 
cember  1st  we  will  publish  a  new  book,  under  the 
above  title,  by  Indiana's  favorite  Poet,  Author  and 
Lecturer.  Those  who  have  read  Mr.  Riley's  "Old 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  DEER  CREEK        213 

Swimmin'-Hole,"  or  revelled  in  the  humor  of  his  lec 
tures,  will  be  delighted  with 

THE  BOSS  GIRL. 

This  little  book  reveals  the  twofold  ability  of  the 
gifted  author.     Mr.  Riley's  insight  into  life  is  marvel 
ous,  and  powerfully  appeals  to  the  heart.    We  con 
gratulate  both  ourselves  and  the  people  at  large  on 
the  publication,  which,  we  feel,  is  assured  of  a  hearty 
welcome  and  widely  extended  sale. 
Price,  Cloth,  $1.00.    Paper,  50c. 
Respectfully, 

THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  CO., 
Publishers,  Booksellers  and  Importers, 
16  and  18  West  Washington  Street, 

Indianapolis,  Indiana. 
November  23,  1885. 

The  first  edition  was  quickly  sold,  while  the  poet 
was  on  the  wing.  He  wrote  Doctor  Newton  Matthews : 

January  1,  1886. 
Dear  Matthews — and  an  uncommon  happy  New  Year! 

Awful  glad  you  like  the  book.  It  is  better  than  I 
dared  to  hope,  however  hard  I  set  my  teeth  and 
wished  and  wished  and  wished.  The  last  sketch  is  my 
pet — "The  Spider,"  and  I  was  fearful  you  were  not 
going  to  say  a  word  in  praise  of  that.  Now  it  is  all 
right  and  I  am  perfectly  relieved. 

The  book  is  clean  out  of  print — a  week  ago.  Next 
edition  delayed  by  paper — 'ad-dam  it !  and  had  it  been 
ready  would  have  been  exhausted  too.  Too  bad! 
Last  night  at  Champaign  (Illinois).  Nearly  a  thou 
sand  people;  and  your  friends — every  one  of  them — 
and  mine,  too,  now,  I  hope, 

As  I  am  Yours,    J.  W.  RILEY. 


214  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

A  year  or  two  and  the  poet  was  less  enthusiastic 
about  the  book.  There  were  many  errors  in  it,  many 
lines  and  occasionally  a  paragraph  that  would  have 
been  stricken  out  had  he  had  the  opportunity  to  work 
on  the  proofs.  "The  ghost  of  Dickens,"  wrote  a 
prominent  friend  and  critic,  "has  laid  his  hand  on 
some  of  the  stories.  On  the  whole  they  are  disappoint 
ing.  The  poet  has  been  switched  off  on  the  wrong 
track.  He  should  stick  to  poetry." 

A  while  longer  and  his  sighs  grew  to  downright 
dissatisfaction  over  the  defects.  "If  you  have  visited 
Mount  Vesuvius  during  business  hours,"  he  wrote  a 
a  friend,  "come  now  and  see  me  in  a  state  of  eruption 
over  this  book."  Answering  an  English  publisher 
(1888)  who  had  made  inquiries  about  the  stories  he 
said:  "As  to  prose  work  for  your  magazine,  I  could 
engage  to  furnish  nothing  for  some  months  at  least. 
Here — much  as  I  deplore  the  fact — few  but  the  writer 
seem  at  all  taken  with  that  work;  and  in  consequence 
all  orders  lean  decidedly  to  verse — and  that  too  in 
dialect.  Of  prose  therefore  I  have  printed  but  one 
book,  and  that  almost  wholly  unknown  except  to  the 
very  prescribed  market  of  my  native  state.  It  was, 
to  begin  with,  unhappily  named — then,  unfortunately, 
edited  in  my  absence.  All  its  manifold  defects  I  much 
want  to  exterminate  and  set  it  forth  again,  for  I  be 
lieve  in  it,  and  nothing  would  better  please  me  than 
for  an  English  house  like  yours  to  manifest  an  interest 
in  it." 

Three  years  later  the  poems  were  omitted,  and  the 
title  changed  to  Sketches  in  Prose,  the  second  volume 
in  the  poet's  complete  edition. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SILVER  LINING 

44  T  WRITE  for  the  Executive  Committee  of  the 
International  Copyright  League  to  invite  you 

»  to  participate  in  the  Authors'  Readings,  which 
are  to  be  given  in  Chickering  Hall,  New  York,  Novem 
ber  28  and  29.  Lowell  will  preside  and  Curtis,  Clem 
ens,  Cable,  Howells,  Stockton,  Warner,  Eggleston,  and 
Page  will  read  from  their  own  works.  It  will  be  a 
great  occasion  and  worth  your  while  to  come." 

Such  was  the  invitation  extended  to  Riley  by  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson  then  editor  of  the  Century  Maga 
zine.  It  dropped  from  the  clouds — a  day  in  Novem 
ber,  1887.  Five  years  before  the  poet  had  come  off 
with  flying  colors  from  Boston  Town,  and  each  year 
since,  it  had  been  his  hope  to  win  distinction  in 
Gotham.  He  had  talked  about  it  to  writers,  "from 
Matthew  Arnold  down  to  the  Bard  of  McCordsville," 
he  said.  For  a  decade  the  League  had  been  holding 
annual  meetings  in  New  York,  at  which  authors  had 
been  reading  from  their  books,  but  no  invitation  had 
been  sent  to  the  Hoosier  Poet.  In  February  he  had 
won  much  praise  with  "The  Old  Man  and  Jim."  "You 
have  hit  the  bull's  eye  this  time,"  wrote  the  editor  of 
the  Century.  "The  thing  is  a  poem  clean  through.  I 
would  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  have  written  it." 

But  a  magazine  reputation  is  rather  a  transient 
thing.  What  Riley's  friends  and  associates  preferred 
just  then  was  an  opportunity  for  him  to  do  something 

215 


216  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

in  New  York  that  would  claim  the  attention  of  the 
newspapers.  "In  the  matter  of  my  readings/'  he 
wrote  Johnson,  accepting  the  invitation,  "I  will  try 
very  hard  not  to  disappoint  you,  for  I  feel  as  gravely 
conscientious  as  I  am  grateful  for  the  opportunity  so 
generously  offered." 

The  prospect  was  most  alluring  although  the  invita 
tion  came  at  a  time  when  he  was  "crowded  and  hustled 
along  pell-mell"  in  work  on  a  new  book.  "Off  at  next 
gasp  for  New  York  and  Bill  Nye,"  he  wrote  Doctor 
Matthews,  November  twenty-third.  "As  yet  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  state  my  mission,  but  in  confidence  you 
must  know  that  I  go  there  to  read  with  American 
Authors.  Is  not  that  a  great  big  and  all-swelled-up 
honor  for  the  little  bench-leg  poet  out  of  this  blessed 
Hoosier  Nazareth?  Only  think  of  it! — introduced  by 
James  Russell  Lowell  to  thousands  of  the  crowned 
heads  of  the  strictly  elite  literary  eye-and-ear  auditors 
of  that  Athens!  Oh,  heavens! — I  feel  indeed  that  I 
am  a  poor  sewing  girl.  Will  send  you  word  of  my 
success,  big  or  little — or  none." 

Next  to  the  Authors'  Readings,  Riley's  lodestar  in 
the  eastern  visit  was  Bill  Nye.  They  had  exchanged 
affectionate  letters  for  a  year,  and  Nye  when  passing 
through  Indianapolis,  like  Burdette,  "remained  over 
for  a  call  on  the  Journal  Works."  Their  letters  were 
long  and  as  Nye  said,  "often  contained  anecdotes  not 
intended  for  the  public's  enjoyment."  In  the  first 
letter  quoted  below  he  had  intended  to  write  one  that 
Riley  would  put  in  his  "autograph  album"  and  point 
to  with  pride,  but  he  soon  discovered  that  it  was  not 
that  kind  of  letter.  "When  I  have  been  garnered  in 
at  last,"  he  wrote,  "and  come  before  the  Throne, 


THE  SILVER  LINING  217 

scared  half  to  death  for  fear  that  the  Almighty  will 
introduce  me  to  the  audience  and  ask  me  to  make  a 
few  remarks,  I  hope,  Jamesie,  that  you  will  not  pro 
duce  this  letter  and  humiliate  me." 

Nye  had  recently  joined  the  staff  of  the  New  York 
World.  He  wrote  Riley  in  September.  This  letter, 
in  part,  and  Riley's  answer,  in  part,  and  the  Novem 
ber  letter  arranging  for  their  meeting,  follow.  Nye's 
residence  was  on  Staten  Island,  a  half-mile  from  St. 
George  landing,  and  it  was  really  a  miracle  that  Riley 
reached  it: 

My  dear  Jamesie: 

I  wish  you  knew  how  many  friends  you  have  in  this 
young  and  growing  town.  It  would  make  you  well. 
I  went  into  a  Broadway  office  the  other  day  and  heard 
a  publisher  recite  "The  Harelip."  I  had  never  heard 
it  and  I  was  pained  to  hear  anybody  recite  one  of  your 
poems  in  the  "0-Mother-may-I-go-to-school-with- 
Charles-to-day"  style;  but  his  admiration  was  mighty 
sincere  and  you  could  see  that  you  had  reached  his 
large,  dark  red  heart. 

My  syndicate  letter  (the  coming  week)  will  be  de 
voted  to  you.  It  will  do  you  no  harm.  I  am  very 
sorry  you  have  not  seen  the  Sunday  World.  I  judged 
you  would  see  it  at  the  Journal  Works.  If  you  will 
notice  my  efforts  you  will  see  the  footprints  of  your 
brain  across  my  later  geological  strata  like  the  eccen 
tric  trail  of  a  drunk  and  disorderly  Ichthyosauria 
going  to  his  preadamite  roost.  This  is  not  intended 
to  cast  any  reflections  on  you  in  the  matter  of  the 
Demon  Rum,  but  more  to  show  you  how  great  has 
been  your  influence  on  the  better  class  of  literature. 

Good-bye,  my  dear  Jamesie,  with  the  best  of  wishes 
and  the  assurance  that  I  will  always  use  my  influence 
for  you  at  the  Throne  of  Grace. 

Yours  Ever,      BILL. 


218  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  Journal,  Indianapolis,  November  11,  1887. 
(Confidential) 

Dear  Nye: 

Just  now  there  is  an  invitation  to  me  to  come  and 
"say  a  piece"  at  the  Authors*  Readings.  Consulting 
my  own  intentions  about  the  matter,  I  find  that  I  can 
go,  and  thus  hasten  to  warn  you  of  the  fact,  so's  you 
can  have  your  chores  at  home  purty  well  off  your 
hands  and  the  house  red  up  perparitory-like,  as  the 
feller  says,  to  receive  me  with  corroberatin'  eclaw; 
and,  last  but  not  least,  to  ast  you  if  I  hadn't  better 
fetch  along  a  extry  shirt,  and  buy  my  tobacker  here, 
as  I  have  heard  my  kind  is  not  to  be  had  there  fer 
love  er  money.  I  wish,  too,  that  you  and  Catalpa 
[Nye's  wife]  and  the  fambly  would  meet  me  at  the 
depot — wherever  I  git  off  at,  so's  I  won't  git  carried 
past  and  run  on  into  some  other  town  where  I  hain't 
got  kith  ner  kin.  I'm  the  blamedst  fool  travelin',  I 
reckon,  they  is  outside  o'  the  durn  lunatic  asylum — 
'bout  not  gittin'  trains,  er  gittin'  the  wrong  one,  and 
all  sich  aggervations  that-away. 

Mr.  Johnson  mysteriously  postscripts  invitation  to 
keep  Reading  in  the  dark  for  a  few  days — wonder 
why,  and  what  'ud  become  of  a  feller  if  he'd  take  it 
back,  and  I'd  not  get  to  go  there  after  all.  Reckon 
though,  it's  all  right,  as  I  bet  on  his  friendship  among 
the  first.  Write  me  soon  and  allus  believe  in  me. 

As  ever  your 

JAMESIE. 

New  York,  November  18,  1887. 
My  dear  Jamesie: 

Your  note  received  just  as  I  was  embarking  for  a 
little  lecture  "spirt"  and  now  that  I  am  back  again 
I  will  write  to  say  that  I  will  meet  you  at  whatever 
train  and  time  you  say  and  welcome  you  with  a  big 
and  pronounced  welcome  then  and  there.  I  went  over 


THE  SILVER  LINING  219 

to  Boston  and  jerked  a  few  remarks  for  them  the 
other  evening.  Kind  friends  came  and  laughed 
heartily. 

There  was  a  brief  announcement  the  other  day  in 
the  papers  of  the  Copyright  Benefit  but  only  a  partial 
list  of  the  attractions.  It  is  a  big  thing,  one  of  the 
best  in  a  literary  way  in  the  Union  and  will  be  pre 
sided  over  by  our  friend,  James  Russell  Lowell  who, 
as  you  know,  is  the  author  of  "The  Old  Swimmin-Hole 
and  'Leven  More  Poems." 

Write  me  at  once  and  tell  me  accurately,  giving  me 
your  Motif,  and  time  table  and  how  and  when  and 
where  to  meet  you  at  Jersey  City  or  the  other  depots 
of  our  young  and  thriving  town,  so  that  I  will  be  there 
an  hour  or  two  beforehand  walking  up  and  down  the 
platform  with  my  team  hitched  outside  ready  to  take 
you  out  to  the  farm  where  Catalpa  and  dear  ones  will 
be  ready  to  greet  you.  Till  then,  "olive  oil,"  as  the 
sayin'  is.  Good-bye — and  God's  best  and  freshest  new 
laid  blessings  on  your  soft  and  flaxen  head. 

Yours  with  anticipations  and  things, 

BILL. 

"They  were  of  humble  origin  with  little  of  what  the 
world  calls  education,"  Riley  had  read  a  score  of  years 
before  in  the  British  Painters.  "They  came  from  the 
great  academy  of  nature  and  the  influence  of  studios 
or  galleries  of  art  had  no  share  in  preparing  them  for 
the  contest."  Precisely  so  it  was  with  the  poet  when 
he  came  to  the  "contest"  in  Chickering  Hall.  He  was 
of  humble  origin  and  had  little  of  what  the  world  calls 
education,  but  he  did  have  for  daily  encouragement 
the  faith  and  good  will  of  Indiana — a  large,  intelli 
gent  population  that  believed  he  had  the  ability  to 
charm  the  people  of  New  York  as  he  had  often 
charmed  the  people  at  home. 


220  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  desire  to  see  and  to  hear  such  an  unusual  group 
of  distinguished  authors  drew  to  Chickering  Hall  an 
almost  equally  distinguished  audience.  An  hour  be 
fore  the  doors  were  opened  the  sidewalk,  steps  and 
stairway  were  densely  packed.  It  was  not  easy  to  get 
within  half  a  block  of  the  hall.  Inside,  the  audience 
filled  every  available  foot  of  space,  standing  several 
rows  deep  around  the  walls  of  the  famous  auditorium. 
Many  distinguished  men  sat  on  the  platform — Charles 
H.  Parkhurst,  Lyman  Abbott,  Robert  Collyer  and 
many  others,  including  representatives  from  the  maga 
zines  and  the  leading  publishing  houses. 

The  Readings  were  in  the  afternoon  and  the  second 
day  program  was  as  follows: 

James  Russell  Lowell — "The  Finding  of  the  Lyre," 
"Aladdin/'  and  "The  Courtin'." 

Colonel  Richard  M.  Johnson — "The  Early  Majority  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Watts." 

Thomas  Nelson  Page — Christmas  scene  from  "Unc' 
Edinburgh's  Drowndin'." 

Charles  Dudley  Warner — "The  Hunting  of  the  Bear." 

Frank  R.  Stockton — "Prince  Hassock's  March." 

William  Dean  Howells— "The  Breaking  of  Dan's  En 
gagement." 

George  William  Curtis — "The  New  Livery"  from  the 
"Potiphar  Papers." 

At  the  close  of  the  program  there  was  confusion  in 
the  audience  and  some  show  of  impatience,  for  it  had 
been,  as  often  before,  shown  that  an  author's  ability 
to  write  well  was  no  guarantee  that  he  could  read 
well.  Mr.  Lowell,  the  chairman,  promptly  rose  and 
announced  that  letters  had  been  received  from  Ban 
croft,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Henry  James,  Robert  Louis 


THE  SILVER  LINING  221 

Stevenson,  John  Hay,  General  Lew  Wallace  and  others, 
and  then  lifting  his  hand  for  silence  and  to  check  those 
who  had  turned  to  leave,  he  said: 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  want  to  thank  you  for 
your  kind  attention  without  which  these  readings  could 
not  have  been  a  success.  I  also  desire  to  thank  Mr. 
James  Whitcomb  Riley,  who  has  so  generously  con 
sented  to  favor  us  again  to-day  with  one  of  his  de 
lightful  selections.  I  confess  with  no  little  chagrin 
and  sense  of  my  own  loss,  that  when  yesterday  after 
noon,  from  the  platform,  I  presented  him  to  a  similar 
assemblage,  I  was  almost  a  stranger  to  his  poems. 
Since  then  I  have  been  reading  one  of  his  books,  and 
in  it  I  have  discovered  so  much  of  high  worth  and 
tender  quality  that  I  deeply  regret  that  I  had  not  long 
before  been  acquainted  with  his  work.  I  have  been 
so  impressed  with  the  tenderness  and  beauty  of  the 
poems  that  I  read  that  I  almost  hope  he  will  give  one 
of  them  now.  But  whether  it  be  one  I  have  read  or 
something  else,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  something  good. 
To-day,  in  presenting  him,  I  can  say  to  you  of  my  own 
knowledge  that  you  are  to  have  the  pleasure  of  listen 
ing  to  the  voice  of  a  true  poet." 

The  applause  which  followed  amounted  to  a  demon 
stration.  It  would  be  erroneous  to  conclude  that  it 
was  all  for  Riley.  Lowell  had  been  idolized  both  after 
noons.  But  Riley  had  been  so  conspicuously  success 
ful  the  first  day  that  his  reappearance,  unannounced 
on  the  program,  the  second  afternoon,  was  the  signal 
for  an  ovation.  The  first  day,  to  quote  Miss  Jean- 
nette  Gilder,  "he  sailed  in  as  though  he  had  been 
born  to  the  stage  and  gave  a  performance  that  the 
most  illustrious  comedian  might  envy."  The  New 


222  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

York  papers  acknowledged  him  "the  position  in 
American  literature,  which  his  genius  and  versatility 
deserved."  The  first  day  he  recited  "When  the  Frost 
Is  on  the  Punkin,"  one  of  "those  little  things,"  said 
the  Herald,  "which  are  not  spoiled  by  being  well  done. 
He  did  it  so  well  as  to  excite  screams  of  laughter,  but 
in  the  'Object  Lesson'  he  tickled  the  intellectual  palate 
with  as  excellent  a  piece  of  mimicry  as  Chickering 
Hall  ever  saw  and  capped  the  climax  of  the  after 
noon's  enjoyment." 

Just  before  Riley  appeared,  George  W.  Cable  recited 
in  dramatic  style  a  selection  from  his  story  "Grand 
Point."  Then,  said  the  World,  "the  stranger  and  the 
success  of  the  occasion  was  introduced.  This  was 
James  Whitcomb  Riley.  In  a  poem  and  a  character 
sketch  he  sunk  the  author  in  the  actor.  The  fun  of 
the  other  authors  shriveled  up  into  bitter  patches  of 
melancholy  in  the  bright  light  of  Riley's  humor.  Doc 
tor  Howard  Crosby,  who  occupied  a  conspicuous  seat 
on  the  stage,  laughed  until  he  looked  as  though  he 
would  faint,  and  finally  in  sheer  nonsectarian  uproar- 
iousness  poked  Bishop  Potter  in  the  ribs  and  subsided." 

Riley's  selection  for  the  second  afternoon  firmly 
established  his  reputation.  Here  was  his  golden 
opportunity  to  justify  his  claims  for  dialect,  and  he 
did  it  with  "Nothin'  To  Say,"  a  characteristic  poem  in 
which  is  shown  an  old  father's  tenderness  to  his 
motherless  daughter  when  she  tells  him  she  is  going 
to  be  married.  In  reciting  it,  it  was  said,  the  poet 
gained  the  approval  of  the  entire  audience.  "The 
silence  was  intense  with  applause."  Both  men  and 
women  manifested  deep  emotion. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  223 

For  years  there  had  been  among  the  scholarly  what 
seemed  to  Riley  an  unthinking  prejudice  against  his 
dialect  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  dispel.  He  held 
that  the  use  of  dialect  was  necessary  to  the  full  inter 
pretation  of  certain  phases  of  human  life.  The 
scholarly  were  grieved  because  it  was  a  blemish  on  re 
fined  speech.  It  was  therefore  a  decided  victory,  when 
in  New  York  he  gained  the  applause  of  the  intellectuals. 
One  of  the  most  erudite  critics  in  the  list  said  that 
"Nothin'  To  Say"  did  not  depend  on  the  vernacular. 
"The  feeling,  the  pathos  of  the  touching  little  poem 
gives  it  its  value,  and  the  dialect  is  simply  its  strongest 
and  most  fitting  expression."  A  popular  book, 
Winning  of  the  West,  was  then  maturing  in  the  mind 
of  Theodore  Roosevelt.  Riley's  purpose  in  the  Amer 
ican  Authors'  Readings  was  the  winning  of  the  East 
— and  he  won  it. 

Seated  in  the  front  row  of  the  hall  was  the  wife  of 
a  United  States  Senator,  who  had  heard  Riley  recite 
"Farmer  Whipple,"  when  he  was  "training"  with  the 
Wizard  Oil  Company  in  Lima,  Ohio.  At  that  early 
date  she  had  recognized  his  genius  and  predicted  his 
fame.  She  was  not  therefore  surprised  when  Chicker- 
ing  Hall  rang  with  applause. 

Naturally  the  center  of  delight  over  the  New  York 
enthusiasm  was  in  Indiana.  "The  whole  town — and 
State,"  Riley  wrote  Nye  from  Indianapolis  a  fortnight 
after  the  Readings,  "has  been  upside-down  about  the 
New  York  success,  and  in  consequence  I  have  been 
giving  my  full  time  to  shaking  hands  and  trying  to 
look  altogether  unswollen  by  my  triumph — if  I  may 
so  term  it.  Positively  you  have  no  idea  of  the  gen- 


224  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

eral  and  continued  rejoicing  of  the  press  and  friends. 
Were  it  any  other  distinguished  citizen  than  myself, 
it  would  turn  his  head;  but  as  it  is*  I  am  bearing  it, 
Bill,  about  as  you  know  I  kin,  when  I  set  my  jaws  to 
it."  As  Nye  said,  "It  took  weeks  for  the  general 
enthusiasm  of  the  State  to  get  back  into  its  banks 
again." 

Hoosiers  were  particularly  flattered  over  the  recog 
nition  Lowell  had  given  their  poet.  Four  years  before 
Riley  had  sent  to  Lowell  at  Cambridge  a  copy  of  The 
Old  Swimming-Hole.  Lowell  was  in  England  and  did 
not  receive  it.  "Why  have  I  not  heard  more  of  Riley?" 
he  remarked  to  a  friend  on  the  second  day  of  the 
Readings.  "Tell  me  all  you  know  about  him.  I  sat 
up  last  night  till  two  o'clock  reading  his  verse.  Noth 
ing  that  the  poets  have  written  in  this  country  for 
years  has  touched  me  so  deeply  as  'Knee-Deep  in 
June.'"  This  was  a  tribute  without  a  string  to  it. 
It  made  no  difference  to  Lowell  that  Riley  had  been 
born  and  reared  west  of  the  Alleghanies. 

While  receiving  congratulations  Riley  gave  interest 
ing  impressions  of  the  authors  he  had  met.  LOWELL 
— younger  than  anticipated,  clad  in  a  black  suit,  a  man 
of  medium  height  and  polished  manners  with  grace 
and  felicity  of  expression.  CLEMENS — innocent,  art 
less,  brimming  with  undiluted  mirth,  did  not  possess 
the  fatal  gift  of  beauty  but  was  better-looking  than 
Bill  Nye.  STODDARD — the  critic,  the  skilled  anatomist 
in  all  literary  fractures,  sprains  and  dislocations. 
EGGLESTON — of  tall  figure  and  substantial  frame, 
whose  shock  of  hair  might  be  taken  for  a  hazel  thicket 
in  his  native  heath.  HOWELLS— • with  the  youthful 
atmosphere  still  about  him  that  a  score  of  years  before 


THE  SILVER  LINING  225 

fascinated  Lowell  at  Elmwood.  STOCKTON — not  so 
tall,  yet,  in  quaint  manner,  features,  eyes  and  expres 
sion,  resembling  Myron  Reed.  CABLE — delicate  in 
figure,  a  platform  favorite  and  funny  as  ever. 
CURTIS — hale  and  sturdy,  of  vital  force,  with  sonorous 
voice,  and  sound  of  frame  as  a  Norseland  Viking. 
WARNER — another  Viking,  but  in  manner  simple,  quiet, 
delectable.  PAGE — a  young  man  of  commercial  as 
pect,  but  wonderfully  gifted  as  a  reader,  all  things 
conspiring  to  put  before  his  audience  a  drama  of 
actors  and  visible  scenery.  Last  and  not  least,  a  man 
who  was  touched  with  the  feeling  of  a  poet's  infirm 
ities,  ROBERT  COLLYER,  who,  somewhere  in  the  vast 
city,  lived  in  a  modest  brick  house,  no  butler  to  guard 
his  door,  no  card  or  password  necessary  to  greet  him ; 
the  hale,  sturdy  yeoman  with  hair  white  as  snow  and 
cheeks  ruddy  as  summer  apples. 

While  friends  and  the  press  were  rejoicing,  the  first 
edition  of  another  book  was  being  exhausted,  the  poet's 
third  volume,  "the  darling  of  the  list,"  it  was  thought 
then  as  many  think  to-day.  This  was  the  book  that 
kept  Lowell  awake  till  two  in  the  morning.  "I  have 
been  at  work  on  a  book,"  Riley  said  to  a  friend  in 
October,  1887;  "if  it  proves  successful  I  shall  be  the 
happiest  little  man  in  the  world — for  I  have  been  long 
under  the  harrow."  "A  beautiful  book  in  press,"  he 
wrote  Mrs.  Catherwood,  "dedicated  to  my  mother,  160 
pages  of  puore  poetry."  "Want  to  talk  with  you  a 
few  weeks,"  he  wrote  Robert  Mclntyre,  "but  of  course 
can  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Up  and  at  it  as  fast  as  a 
Mussulman's  screech  and  new  rhymes  can  wobble 
into  ranks.  Am  writing  better  stuff  than  ever,  with 
my  best  book  now  in  hands  of  publishers.  Thousands 


226  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

of  'em  sold  and  the  money  purt-nigh  right  in  my 
pocket — and  out  again.  We  call  the  volume  After- 
whiles." 

It  was  pure  poetry,  although  Riley  sometimes 
feigned  to  dislike  it.  As  Hamlin  Garland  said  at  the 
time,  the  volume  was  unique  in  American  literature. 
Never  before  had  such  simple,  genuine  expression 
been  given  in  verse  to  homely  things. 

Nye  entreated  Riley  not  to  forget  the  East  in  the 
first  glow  of  the  wonderful  Afterwhiles.  "The  book 
does  not  weigh  half  a  pound,"  he  wrote  for  the  New 
York  World,  "but  it  ought  not  to  be  judged  by  that. 
Here  are  thoughts  that  have  floated  about  in  every 
body's  head.  It  is  a  pleasing  task  to  make  two  smiles 
where  one  grew — so  I  am  told — but  to  do  it  in  such 
a  way  as  to  retain  self-respect  and  leave  the  reader  in 
the  same  condition,  to  purify  a  man's  moral  system  by 
letting  the  daylight  and  ozone  of  laughter  into  his 
damp  and  dismal  soul,  to  make  folly  appear  foolish 
and  make  humor  do  something  besides  draw  its  salary, 
ought  to  be  considered  a  laudable  ambition.  Riley 
has  done  this.  He  has  made  music  with  the  homely 
chords  of  Hoosierdom,  made  it  with  the  zeal  of  an 
artist  and  the  love  of  a  patriot." 

Aftemvhiles  marks  a  closer  and  a  more  remunera 
tive  relation  between  the  poet  and  the  book  market, 
for  which  he  was  ever  grateful  and  always  indebted 
to  his  brother-in-law,  Henry  Eitel.  The  impression 
was  abroad — and  there  was  ground  for  it — that  the 
poet  knew  about  as  much  about  business  as  an  Aus 
tralian  kangaroo  knows  about  The  Iliad.  He  had 
printed  his  poems  in  the  Indianapolis  Journal  and 
Herald,  and  other  periodicals;  but  how  "in  the  name 


THE  SILVER  LINING  227 

of  the  Saints"  could  he  recover  them?  Original 
manuscripts  were  stored  away  in  musty  trunks,  which 
he  could  not  find,  or,  if  he  could,  he  had  not  the 
patience  or  the  heart  to  go  through.  Who  would  col 
lect  them?  Who  would  search  scrap-books  and  the 
newspaper  files  ?  This  his  brother-in-law  did — assisted 
by  Mrs.  Eitel  and  a  secretary.  After  four  or  five 
months  of  patient,  faithful  work,  the  large  stock  of 
poems  was  accumulated  for  book  publication. 

Since  the  Park  Theater  Benefit  (1879)  Riley's 
public  appearance  in  Indianapolis  had  been  known 
as  "his  annual  entertainment."  As  actor  and  speaker 
he  had  improved  each  year,  without  sacrificing  his 
originality — the  special  mark  which  distinguished 
him  from  other  entertainers.  Each  year  he  had  been 
received  with  enthusiasm.  After  the  New  York  re 
ception  the  Indiana  capital  thought  the  poet  had 
earned  another  "testimony  of  its  admiration,"  and 
this  it  gave  at  the  Grand  Opera  House  in  January, 
1888. 

It  was  an  evening  for  public  celebration — the  poet 
had  been  accepted  by  the  authorities  in  literature. 
Elijah  W.  Halford  of  the  Indianapolis  Journal  pre 
sided,  and  in  an  interesting  address  briefly  sketched 
the  poet's  life.  ''In  looking  over  this  magnificent 
audience,"  he  said,  introducing  Riley,  "I  am  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  there  is  at  least  one  conspicuous 
difference  between  a  prophet  and  a  poet.  While  a 
prophet  is  not  without  honor,  save  in  his  own  country  5 
a  poet — our  poet — may  well  felicitate  himself  that  he 
is  most  esteemed  and  admired  where  best  known,  and 
that  it  is  amongst  his  friends  and  neighbors,  in  the 
state  of  his  birth  and  the  city  of  his  home,  that  the 


228  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

warmest  need  of  recognition  and  welcome  awaits 
him." 

Mr.  Riley  recited  the  three  selections  he  had  given 
in  New  York,  together  with  other  verses  more  famil 
iar  to  the  home  audience.  Then  followed  the  new 
poem,  "The  Old  Man  and  Jim,"  and  part  of  the  prose 
sketch,  "The  Boy  From  Zeeny." 

Near  the  end  of  the  program  the  audience  had  its 
first  vision  of  "Little  Orphant  Annie"  as  she  appeared 
before  the  footlights.  She  was  "deliriously"  intro 
duced  by  the  poet,  who  told  of  his  first  vision  of  her 
in  his  boyhood,  when  the  slender  wisp  of  a  girl,  clad 
in  black  and  a  summer  hat  came  one  cold  winter  day 
to  the  old  Riley  homestead — and  when  he  had  finished, 
his  hearers  were  quite  familiar  with  her  elfish  ways 
and  the  goblins  that'll  get  you  ef  you  don't  watch  out. 

He  closed,  modestly,  without  a  word  about  his  New 
York  success.  Indeed  his  modesty  was  always  a  pass 
port  to  the  love  and  applause  of  the  audience.  "I  de 
sire  to  thank  you/'  he  said,  bidding  his  hearers  good 
night,  "for  the  warm  interest  in  my  career,  and  for 
the  great  help  and  encouragement  you  have  been  to 
me.  I  can  make  no  return  except  to  express  my 
heartfelt  gratitude  and  cherish  as  long  as  life  lasts  the 
remembrance  of  the  good  that  has  come  to  me  through 
my  friends." 

While  all  rejoiced  over  the  Indianapolis  testimonial, 
there  was  a  feeling  that  it  should  have  been  wider  in 
its  scope,  should  be  the  homage  of  the  Central  West, 
and  this  feeling  was  crystallized  by  the  Western  Asso 
ciation  of  Writers  at  a  dinner  in  the  poet's  honor  at 
the  Denison  Hotel,  Indianapolis,  in  October.  One 
smiles  in  this  year  of  grace,  1922,  with  such  names  on 


THE  SILVER  LINING  229 

the  scroll  of  international  fame  as  Ade,  Nicholson, 
Tarkington,  McCutcheon,  Mrs.  Porter  and  many 
others,  that  the  new  writers  of  that  generation,  the 
year,  1888,  should  have  been  so  deeply  concerned  about 
the  place  of  Indiana  in  American  literature.  But  so 
they  were. 

The  W.  A.  W.,  dubbed  the  "Writers'  Singing  Bee/' 
had  been  organized  a  year  or  so  before,  and  many 
years  after  1888  met  annually  at  Winona,  Indiana. 
The  Denison  parlor  in  which  the  Association  spread 
its  banquet  was  beautifully  decorated  and  forty  guests, 
including  many  writers,  flanked  the  poet  on  either 
side  the  banquet  table.  Benjamin  S.  Parker,  presi 
dent  of  the  Association,  gave  a  sketch  of  the  growth 
of  western  literature.  Honorable  William  Dudley 
Foulke  was  the  toastmaster  of  the  evening. 

In  response  to  the  toast  "Our  Guest,"  Eiley  could 
but  feebly  convey  the  full  sense  of  his  gratitude.  "The 
honor  you  so  generously  bestow,"  he  said,  "is  so 
munificent  that,  in  comparison,  my  deserving  seems 
to  me  a  very  trivial  consideration;  so  that,  while 
grateful  beyond  all  definition,  I  am  no  less  pathetically 
reminded  of  my  present  unworthiness,  and  the  ac 
companying  fear  that  even  the  most  generous  future 
may,  in  that  regard,  still  find  me  a  delinquent.  There 
fore,  with  more  loyalty  than  language  and  more  tears 
than  wine — God  bless  us  every  one!" 

Mrs.  M.  L.  Andrews,  secretary  of  the  W.  A.  W., 
read  letters  from  absent  friends.  Having  been  nomi 
nated  for  President  of  the  United  States,  Benjamin 
Harrison  could  not  attend  the  banquet,  but  the  Asso 
ciation  understood  that,  in  case  of  his  election,  Riley 
should  be  chosen  Poet  Laureate  of  America. 


230  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  letters  were  cordial  to  an  inspiring  degree.  "I 
drink  to  the  health  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  at 
home,"  wrote  James  Boyle  O'Reilly,  "and  I  will  ponder 
on  the  fact  that  a  man  can  rise  in  Indianapolis  a 
thousand  miles  from  Boston,  and  strike  a  literary  note 
that  the  whole  country  turns  its  ear  to  hear."  Many 
other  letters  from  eastern  authors  were  written  in  the 
same  spirit.  Three  are  quoted : 

New  York,  October  18,  1888. 
Mrs.  M.  L.  Andrews,  Indianapolis,  Indiana. 
Dear  Friend: 

The  time  is  past  when  anybody  can  attract  attention 
by  admiring  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  It  is  getting  too 
general  everywhere.  But  the  wild  and  woolly  West 
erns  who  began  to  set  a  heap  by  him  when  he  had  not 
yet  caught  the  eye  of  the  speaker,  now  that  no  geo 
graphical  or  isothermal  lines — I  use  the  word  isother 
mal  because  it  is  euphonious  and  can  certainly  do  no 
harm  at  this  time  when  we  are  all  acquainted — I  say 
now  that  no  geographical  or  isothermal  lines  pretend 
to  bound  his  just  fame,  we  who  knew  him  early  may 
be  seen  at  this  moment  to  swell  with  pardonable  pride. 

Looking  over  the  career  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
and  carefully  examining  the  difficult  and  dangerous 
route  through  which  he  has  passed,  I  am  amazed  that 
a  man  who  knows  so  little  about  how  to  get  anywhere 
on  earth  should  have  got  there  so  early.  I  can  not 
fully  understand  it  yet.  Certainly  Mr.  Riley  moves  in 
a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform. 

I  unite  with  you  all  in  the  warmest  expression  of 
regard  possible  for  your  guest,  and  proceed  at  once 
to  regret  my  physical  inability  to  be  with  you  in  fact 
as  I  am  in  wish,  to-night. 

Sincerely  yours, 

EDGAR  WILSON  NYE. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  231 

Hartford,  October  3,  1888. 
Mr.  W.  D.  Foulke  and  Others : 

Dear  Sirs  and  Misses — For  the  sake  of  the  strong 
love  and  admiration  which  I  feel  for  Riley,  I  would 
go  if  I  could,  were  there  even  no  way  but  by  slow 
freight,  but  I  am  finishing  a  book  begun  three  years 
ago.  I  see  land  ahead;  if  I  stick  to  the  oar  without 
intermission  I  shall  be  at  anchor  in  thirty  days;  if  I 
stop  to  moisten  my  hands  I  am  gone.  So  I  send  Riley 
half  of  my  heart,  and  Nye  the  other  half,  if  he  is 
there,  and  the  rest  of  me  will  stay  regretfully  behind 
to  continue  business  at  the  old  stand. 
Truly  yours, 

S.  L.  CLEMENS. 

Ashfield,  Massachusetts,  October  5,  1888. 
Dear  Madam: 

I  am  sincerely  sorry  that  I  am  unable  to  accept  your 
kind  invitation  to  the  dinner  in  honor  of  Mr.  Riley,  a 
delightful  and  friendly  project  which  you  may  be  sure 
that  I  shall  not  reveal.  I  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  power  of  Mr.  Riley  over  an  audience  when  I  heard 
him  with  sympathy  and  admiration  at  the  Authors' 
Readings  last  year  in  New  York,  and  the  tender 
pathos  and  natural  humor  of  his  verse  had  already 
marked  him  as  a  true  poet  of  the  people.  He  will  be 
an  interpreter  of  that  Western  American  life  which 
has  other  aspects  and  interests  than  those  which  are 
generally  familiar.  Its  spirit,  we  all  know  as  enter 
prise,  energy  and  generosity.  But  he  shows  us  that 
it  is  also  beauty  and  grace  and  human  sympathy.  I 
join  with  all  my  heart  in  wishing  him  ever-increasing 
success,  and  with  most  friendly  regard,  I  am, 
Very  truly  yours, 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

A  pleasant  feature  of  the  banquet  was  the  presenta 
tion  to  Riley  of  a  mask  of  the  head  of  John  Keats,  the 


232  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

gift  of  the  Century  Magazine.  "Then  the  party  broke 
up  wishing  the  poet  health,  wealth  and  prosperity." 

"My  dear  Man/'  wrote  Joel  Chandler  Harris  from 
the  Atlanta  Constitution,  "did  I  not  tell  you  that  you 
were  the  Coming  Man?  Now  that  you  have  really 
come,  I  send  you  congratulations,  together  with  the 
love  of  your  faithful  Uncle  Remus." 

Going  immediately  to  lecture  engagements,  Riley 
had  not  then  the  time  to  reply  to  congratulations,  but 
his  answer  to  the  editor  of  the  New  York  Sun,  could 
not  be  delayed.  Already  the  Sun  was  thinking  of 
Riley  as  a  national  poet — "one  who  is  read  and  appre 
ciated  by  persons  representing  all  classes  of  a  com 
munity  without  distinction  of  education  or  social 
sympathies."  Later  the  Sun  affirmed  that  Riley  came 
"nearer  than  any  other  American  maker  of  verse  to 
meeting  the  definition."  Riley's  answer  was  dated — 

Buffalo,  New  York,  October  22, 1888. 
Mr.  Charles  A.  Dana. 
Dear  Sir  and  friend: 

A  recent  letter  from  you  to  literary  friends  at  home 
did  me  such  honor  that  I  am  at  utter  loss  to  thank 
you  fittingly.  Your  good  comment  I  would  rather 
have  than  fine  gold;  so  it  is  that,  although  a  very 
wealthy  man  is  now  addressing  you,  he  still  remains 
too  poor  in  speech  to  pay  you  a  tithe  of  his  gratitude. 
Simply  you  must  know  that  your  expressed  confidence 
and  interest  in  my  effort  strengthens  and  makes  bet 
ter  my  resolve  to  righteously  deserve  it.  Steadily 
ahead  too  will  I  move  in  quest  always  of  the  way 
wherein  I  hope  to  find  your  approbation. 

Faithfully  and  gratefully  yours, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  233 

In  past  years  "there  had  been  hours,"  Riley  said, 
"when  life  seemed  stark  as  a  granary  floor,  and  the 
mist-bedrizzled  moon  came  crawling  to  me  like  a 
sickly  child."  So  far  as  those  hours  related  to  literary 
recognition,  they  had  passed  away.  He  had  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  magic  circle  of  the  world's  recognized 
men  of  genius.  The  sable  cloud  had  turned  its  "silver 
lining  to  the  night/' 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION 

THIS  alliance,  known  to  the  lecture  platform  as 
the  Nye-Riley  Combination,  had  its  beginning 
in  1886.     Prior  to  that  time  there  had  been 
joint  meetings  but  they  had  been  informal.     Authors' 
readings  were  the  rage.    A  year  before  Mark  Twain 
and  George  Cable  had  swung  round  the  circuit  together 
and  the  tour  had  been  popular  and  financially  suc 
cessful. 

The  formal  opening,  at  Indianapolis,  in  February, 
was  a  triple  entertainment,  the  third  "funny  man" 
being  Eugene  Field,  then  the  humorist  of  the  Chicago 
News.  As  was  expected  the  three-star  bill  drew  a 
full  house;  "packed  it,"  Robert  Burdette  said,  "until 
people  began  to  fall  out  of  the  windows."  A  more 
delighted  audience  never  laughed  its  approval.  Aside 
from  the  regular  numbers — Nye  in  the  "Cow  Phenom 
enon,"  and  "Robust  Cyclones" ;  Field  in  the  "Romance 
of  a  Waterbury  Watch";  and  Riley  in  "Deer  Crick" 
and  "Fessler's  Bees" — there  was  considerable  sparring 
among  the  participants,  which  keyed  the  audience  to 
the  G  string  of  enjoyment.  According  to  the  program 
the  order  of  appearance  was  Nye,  Field  and  Riley,  but 
when  the  curtain  rang  up  Riley  came  forward  first. 
"I  desire  to  make  a  brief  statement,"  he  said,  "con 
cerning  my  friend  from  Wisconsin.  He  is  the  victim 
of  an  hereditary  affliction,  which  makes  him  morbidly 

234 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  235 

sensitive.  When  the  audience  laughs  he  is  not  always 
certain  whether  they  are  laughing  at  his  humor  or  his 
physical  defect,  and  thus  he  is  humiliated  and  embar 
rassed,  sometimes  to  the  extent  of  forgetting  his  lines. 
Out  of  consideration  for  his  feelings  I  therefore  ask 
the  audience  to  refrain  from  laughing  while  he  recites 
his  piece.  I  will  add  that  his  affliction  is  a  slight  ten 
dency  to  premature  baldness." 

Riley  retired  and,  according  to  Burdette,  the  audi 
ence  put  on  a  decorous,  sympathetic  look  when  Nye 
came  on  making  his  first  bow  to  an  Indiana  congrega 
tion.  "He  was  bald  as  a  brickyard.  The  house  gasped 
and  then  incontinently  roared."  When  he  could  com 
mand  silence,  Nye  said  that  Riley  had  summoned  him 
to  Indianapolis  by  telegram,  a  compliment  indeed  and 
he  was  glad  to  come.  As  the  entertainment  proceeded, 
he  explained,  the  audience  would  observe  that  he  and 
Field  would  be  in  view  on  the  stage  at  the  same  time, 
but  he  and  Riley  would  not  appear  at  the  same  time. 
The  separate  appearance  of  himself  and  the  Hoosier 
"star"  was  explained  in  the  Riley  telegram,  which 
with  the  permission  of  the  audience  Nye  would  read: 
Edgar  W.  Nye — Come  and  appear  at  my  reception. 
Be  sure  to  bring  a  dress  suit.  P.  S.  Don't  forget  the 
trousers.  I  have  a  pair  of  suspenders.  "For  a  mo 
ment,"  said  Burdette,  "the  jest  hung  fire.  Then  some 
body  tittered,  the  fuze  sizzled  through  the  boxes,  down 
the  aisle,  and  then  up  into  the  gallery." 

The  Combination  thus  auspiciously  launched  with 
Field's  blessings,  went  forth  to  take  its  place  in  the 
amusement  world  as  "the  Rarest  of  All  Humorous 
Novelties."  The  first  season  the  attendance  was  not 
always  so  large  that  "people  fell  out  of  the  windows." 


236  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

One  ugly  night  there  was  a  sparse  congregation  in 
Danville,  Illinois.  In  deference  to  Nye  there  was  no 
"brass  band  music."  He  had  had  rough  treatment 
enough,  he  said,  having  been  picked  up  by  a  Manitoba 
simoon  and  thrown  across  a  township. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  said  he  had  been  studying 
zoology  down  in  the  North  Carolina  mountains.  There 
he  had  discovered  a  cow,  hitched  to  a  vehicle — "the 
most  versatile  and  ambidextrous  of  the  species,"  he 
said,  "if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  a  term  that  is  so  far 
above  my  station  in  life.  To  see  that  cow  descending 
a  steep  mountain  road  at  a  rapid  gait  and  striving  in 
her  poor  weak  manner  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  a 
small  Jackson  Democratic  wagon  loaded  with  tobacco 
was  a  sight  that  would  stir  society  to  its  borders." 

When  the  humorists  first  came  out  on  the  stage, 
some  doubt  existed  as  to  their  ability  to  entertain. 
Nye  was  not  graceful  owing  to  "his  height  and  longi 
tude,"  and  Riley  seemed  embarrassed  in  "not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  his  hands."  But  it  wasn't  long  before 
the  little  congregation  began  to  shout  for  joy  and  so 
continued  until  the  resources  for  shouting  were  ex 
hausted.  . 

Ten  days  later,  in  Ohio,  their  way  fairly  streamed 
with  success.  In  a  letter  to  Hitt,  Riley  ran  to  ex 
travagance  about  it: 

Cleveland,  Ohio,  March  6,  1886. 
Dear  George: 

Last  night  we  bagged  the  town — a  success  not  even 
second  to  our  Indianapolis  ovation.  Nye  is  simply 
superb  on  the  stage — and  no  newspaper  report  can 
half-way  reproduce  either  the  curious  charm  of  his 
drollery — his  improvisations — inspirations  and  so 


THE  POET  AND  His  DEVOTED  FRIEND,  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


FKOM  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  POET  BY  His  LIFE-LONG  FRIEND,  T.  C.  STEELE 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  237 

forth.  At  times  his  auditors  are  hysterical  with  de 
light.  We  repeat  to-night  by  special  request  of  every 
body.  Newspapers  all  sent  reporters,  quite  an  audi 
ence  in  themselves,  as  they  sat  in  betabled  phalanx  in 
the  orchestra-pen,  and  laughed  and  whooped  and 
yelled  and  cried,  wholly  oblivious  of  their  duty  half 
the  time. 

As  ever,    J.  W.  R. 

To  another  intimate  Riley  wrote  that  he  was  on  the 
road  constantly,  and  working  between  trains  like  a 
pack  horse.  March  thirtieth  he  wrote  as  follows: 
"Just  home  from  a  long  but  very  successful  trip  about 
the  country.  With  Nye  for  company  the  trials  of 
travel  are  lessened  till  now  I  am  almost  content  with 
what  seems  my  principal  mission  here  on  earth,  i.  e., 
to  spread  over  and  run  all  around  it  like  a  ringworm." 

Nye  also  discovered  traits  in  the  Hoosier  Poet  with 
which  the  public  was  unfamiliar.  "Many  who  know 
Riley  by  his  poems,"  he  wrote  for  an  eastern  paper, 
"have  a  very  erroneous  idea  of  his  personality.  He  is 
a  thorough  boy  with  those  whom  he  knows  and  knows 
well.  Many  people  believe  themselves  to  be  quite 
intimate  with  him  who  really  know  nothing  of  him  at 
all.  Those  who  are  most  free  to  approach  him  and 
lean  upon  him  and  confide  in  him,  sometimes  go  away 
with  a  wrong  impression.  Nothing  freezes  him  up 
sooner  than  the  fresh  and  gurgling  human  pest  who 
yearns  to  say  he  is  intimate  with  some  one  who  is  well 
known,  the  curculio  which  builds  its  nest  in  the  rind 
of  another's  reputation.  Such  a  person  would  meet  a 
cool  and  quiet  little  gentleman  who  would  look  out  the 
window  during  the  interview  and  lock  the  door  after 
it  had  terminated;  but  a  two-year-old  child,  with  its 


238  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

natural  sincerity,  would  be  knowing  him  at  his  best 
inside  of  ten  minutes.  Like  most  men  who  have 
learned  to  despise  what  is  fraudulent  and  false,  he  flies 
to  the  unbought  love  of  children." 

The  fall  of  1886  was  inauspicious  for  the  Combina 
tion.  "We  started  out,"  Riley  said,  "to  chase  our 
prospects  over  the  globe,"  but  soon  Nye's  health  failed 
and  he  had  to  go  south.  In  December  Nye  wrote  Riley 
from  North  Carolina:  "It  is  a  queer  country,  but  I 
think  it  has  considerable  timber  for  the  ambition  of  a 
poet.  Again  and  again  I  am  tempted  to  emit  a  poem 
here,  but  so  far  have  controlled  myself.  I  shall  think 
of  you  all  by  yourself  provoking  the  laughter  and  tears 
of  your  audiences  and  yearning  for  a  recess  during 
which  you  can  retire  to  the  dressing-room  and  com 
mune  with  the  hired  man." 

In  the  spring  of  1887  Nye  had  regained  his  health — 
"weighed,"  he  said,  "175  Ibs.  as  the  crow  flies."  Riley 
had  been  on  the  road  through  the  winter.  "Glad  you 
are  talking  to  them  all  the  time,"  Nye  wrote  him, 
"though  it  is  not  so  blasted  pleasant  to  roam  over  the 
land  all  by  yourself,  studying  time  tables  when  you 
want  to  read  other  things,  and  creeping  in  through  the 
back  way  to  the  stage  accompanied  by  an  apprehensive 
man  who  is  going  to  introduce  you,  and  whose  mouth 
is  very,  very  dry,  and  you  glide  softly  with  him  among 
mouldy  scenes  and  decayed  properties  that  smell  like 
a  haunted  house.  Oh,  Sir,  is  it  not  joyous?  Is  it  not 
fraught  with  merriment  and  chock-full  of  mirth?" 

In  August,  Nye  was  glad  to  see  "Nothin'  To  Say"  in 
the  magazine — "but  cold  type!"  how  different  it  was 
from  "the  delightful,  pathetic  simplicity"  Riley  gave 
the  poem  on  the  platform.  "I  tell  the  people  of  the 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  239 

World/'  Nye  wrote,  "that  I  would  go  farther  to  hear 
you  than  any  other  man  who  treads  the  boards." 

After  lecturing  steadily  for  a  half-year,  Riley  spent 
the  summer  at  Greenfield,  Indiana,  where  he  said  he 
could  "nestle  in  memories  of  Mother  Goose  and  hear 
the  jingles  of  infancy."  "You  would  be  surprised  to 
see  how  well  I  look,"  he  wrote  a  friend,  "and  how 
really  well  I  am.  Somehow  or  other  I  just  won't  die 
— can't  understand  it.  What  would  you  advise? — 
Marriage,  or  more  Poetry?" 

In  the  autumn  Nye  appeared  alone  on  the  New  Eng 
land  circuit,  and  afterward  wrote  Riley,  "I  wore  a 
plug  hat,  but  conversed  freely  with  the  common 
people.  Everywhere  I  went  I  was  received  with  pas 
sionate  reserve  and  shown  the  public  schools  and  the 
mean  temperature." 

From  town  to  town  Riley  was  flitting  through  Ohio 
and  Indiana,  at  fifty  dollars  a  night.  February  15 
(1888)  he  and  Nye  were  together  in  Chicago  for  a 
second  benefit  for  the  Press  Club.  The  papers  next 
day  featured  the  program  as  two  hours  of  solid  enjoy 
ment.  There  were  such  captions  and  lines  as — Big 
Grins  at  Central  Music  Hall — The  Hoosier  Poet  and 
the  Unforgiven  Humorist  Torture  an  Immense  Audi 
ence — Nye  Tickles  Them — Riley  Makes  a  Hit — The 
Poet  and  His  "Lyre"  Send  Home  an  Audience  of  Ach 
ing  Sides  and  Tear-Dimmed  Eyes. 

Nye  and  Riley  were  each  on  the  program  for  three 
selections  but  the  encores  trebled  the  number.  In 
substance  and  in  part  (with  parenthetical  notes  on 
the  applause  inserted  afterward  by  Nye)  the  press  re 
port  was  as  follows:  The  two  gentlemen  appeared 
before  the  public  in  full-dress  suits — and  their  bright- 


240  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

est  witticisms.  Riley  stepped  from  the  waiting-room 
in  a  businesslike  manner  that  contrasted  widely  with 
his  delightful  poetry,  and  almost  before  the  audience 
knew  it  he  was  down  where  the  footlights  ought  to  be. 
Everybody  applauded  and  again  and  again  his  bow 
had  to  be  repeated.  When  quiet  was  restored  he  gave 
a  piece  of  homely,  wholesome  advice  to  the  man  who 
is  always  finding  fault  with  the  weather.  His  hearers 
had  read  his  poem,  but  they  had  not  fully  grasped  the 
truth  concealed  under  the  garb  of  simple  language. 
They  had  another  and  more  delicately  beautiful  ver 
sion  of  it  when  it  came  from  its  author's  lips.  At  its 
conclusion  after  a  storm  of  applause,  he  told  the  story 
of  an  old  patriot  and  his  soldier  son  ("The  Old  Man 
and  Jim")  which  gave  the  audience  a  sense  of  grief 
seldom  experienced  before.  The  poet  saw  in  the  sea 
of  faces  a  "suspicious  glistening"  of  the  eyes. 

Then  Nye  stole  out  past  the  grand  piano  (upheaval 
of  popular  opinion) .  When  he  reached  the  middle  of 
the  stage  he  stopped  to  remove  his  eyeglasses  and 
smile  (applause  while  the  speaker  blushed).  "It 
affords  me  pleasure,"  he  began,  "to  play  a  return  en 
gagement  for  the  Chicago  Press  Club  (renewed  ap 
plause).  I  have  a  great  reverence  for  the  press.  It 
is  a  great  engine  of  destruction  (demonstration).  I 
often  think  of  what  might  have  been  the  fate  of  many 
great  men  without  the  press.  Take  me  for  example, 
or  Lydia  E»  Pinkham  for  instance  (tittering  and 
cackling).  I  suppose  I  should  have  made  the  open 
ing  speech  but  Mr.  Riley  kindly  relieved  me  of  that 
onerous  duty;  so  I  can  get  down  to  business.  Poets 
as  you  probably  know  have  throughout  history  been 
accompanied  by  their  lyres  (laughter) .  Riley  appears 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  241 

before  you  to-night  as  the  poet;  I  suppose  he  has  his 
lyre;  if  not  I  am  with  him  (redoubled  laughter  while 
the  speaker  caresses  the  bald  spot  on  his  head).  I 
asked  a  man  while  riding  into  a  city  the  other  day  if 
he  had  heard  my  last  lecture.  He  said  he  hoped  he 
had  (giggling) .  So  I  am  getting  up  a  new  lecture  in 
which  I  can  reel  off  humor  by  the  yard.  Horace 
Greeley  says  that  a  lecture  is  successful  when  more 
remain  in  the  hall  than  go  out.  I  have  talked  with 
some  of  my  friends  about  it  and  they  suggest  that  I 
get  a  brass  band  to  play  half  an  hour  before  it  and 
half  an  hour  after.  One  critic  says  I  would  make  a 
hit  if  the  band  played  through  the  whole  lecture." 
(Gas  flickers  and  rafters  shake.) 

Then  Riley  took  the  audience  to  the  banks  of  Deer 
Creek  and  while  there  told  them  about  the  woman  who 
swallowed  a  tree  toad.  Later  he  bade  his  hearers  good 
night  in  his  "peroration  on  the  peanut." 

In  his  last  number  Nye  sketched  a  southerner  "with 
a  lambrequin  fringe  under  the  chin,"  and  then  crowned 
the  success  of  the  evening  with  the  story  of  a  Swedish 
dog  "with  whom  he  had  been  associated  on  the  plains." 
And  so  the  program  "came  to  a  merry  end  and  the 
audience  laughed  themselves  into  the  street." 

There  were  other  engagements  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Chicago.  After  the  entertainment  at  South  Bend, 
Indiana,  a  local  poet,  riding  home  on  a  street-car,  ex 
pressed  his  joy  in  rhyme : 

"Nye  and  Riley,  Riley  and  Nye: 
Grin  and  chuckle,  sob  and  sigh! 
Never  had  such  fun  by  half, 
Knew  not  whether  to  cry  or  laugh. 


242  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Jest  and  joke  and  preach  and  sing, 
They  can  do  most  anything — • 
Make  you  laugh  or  make  you  cry — 
Dear  old  Riley!    Rare  Bill  Nye!" 

In  April,  Riley  made  his  second  appearance  in 
Chickering  Hall,  New  York,  this  time  at  a  testimonial 
performance  to  the  veteran  manager,  Major  James  B. 
Pond.  Besides  Nye  and  Riley,  George  W.  Cable  and 
Max  O'Rell  were  on  the  program.  "I  shall  never  for 
get  the  first  time  I  saw  Riley,"  the  celebrated  French 
man  wrote  afterward  in  his  American  Notes.  "He 
made  an  impression  upon  me  such  as  no  other  man 
has  done.  It  was  at  a  banquet  in  New  York,  given 
by  Augustin  Daly,  in  honor  of  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen 
Terry,  at  the  close  of  their  season  in  America.  There 
were  many  eloquent  speeches  and  toasts  made  that 
night,  for  the  party  was  a  brilliant  one.  I  remember 
little  about  them  now  however  as  only  one  impressed 
me,  I  may  say.  That  was  a  plain,  homely-looking 
man,  who  on  a  simple  announcement  arose  and  recited 
'Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's.'  I  acknowledge  that  I  am 
rather  callous.  I  surprised  myself  before  that  man 
had  finished  his  recitation  by  finding  tears  coursing 
down  my  cheeks.  Before  he  concluded  there  was  a 
moisture  in  the  eyes  of  every  one  present.  Ellen 
Terry,  a  queen  in  her  sympathies,  was  almost  over 
come  with  emotion.  That  was  the  first  time  I  heard 
James  Whitcomb  Riley,  and  I  can  understand  why 
Americans  love  him." 

In  the  autumn  Riley  joined  his  colleague  in  the 
World  office,  where  arrangements  were  completed  for 
a  tour  on  a  comprehensive  scale,  under  the  manage 
ment  of  Major  Pond.  Before  reaching  New  York 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  243 

Riley  wrote  Nye  as  follows:  "Soon  hope  to  open  up 
entire  budget  and  hear  your  well-beloved  chortle. 
Simply,  what  suits  you  suits  me.  I  am  so  impatient 
to  be  in  the  hands  of  those  who  will  protect  me  from 
myself.  I  would  not  travel  a  mile  and  three-quarters 
alone,  in  any  direction,  either  in  or  out  of  a  Railway 
guide,  for  any  money  on  earth,  were  I  not  compelled 
to.  Soon  I  will  moisten  my  hands  and  pray  that  I 
may  be  utterly  emancipated  from  all  the  ache  and  cark 
and  care  of  the  one-man-show  business.  Then  only 
will  I  be  supremely  blessed,  and  at  peace  with  God 
and  man." 

For  the  first  time  Riley  remained  long  enough  in 
New  York  to  become  a  familiar  figure  on  Broadway. 
Enveloped  in  his  large  overcoat  he  made  a  picturesque 
appearance.  Strangers  took  notice  of  his  Roman  nose 
and  his  blue  eyes  alight  with  merriment.  He  did  not 
wear  long  poetic  locks;  so  that  it  was  said,  when  he 
removed  his  hat,  the  phrenological  bumps  on  his  head 
were  as  conspicuous  as  wax  figures  in  a  museum. 

It  was  rumored,  absurdly,  that  he  was  writing  a 
series  of  letters  on  politics.  He  had  recently  voted  for 
Harrison  and  had  participated  in  the  wild  demonstra 
tions  in  Indianapolis  over  the  General's  election.  "No, 
I  am  not  in  New  York  to  write  on  politics,"  he  replied 
to  reporters.  "Bill  Nye  and  I  start  out  to-night  at 
Poughkeepsie  on  a  reading-talking  tour.  He  talks  and 
I  read — read  my  own  poems,  not  because  they  are 
better  than  others  but  because  I  know  them  better. 
We  are  booked  for  the  whole  season.  We  shall  cruise 
about  in  this  vicinity  for  a  time  and  then  go  south." 

Up  to  that  time  the  Nye-Riley  tour  was  the  most 
extensive  ever  spread  upon  the  American  map  by  the 


244  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Pond  Bureau,  reaching  in  time  from  November  to 
May,  and  in  place  from  Montgomery,  Alabama,  to 
Minneapolis,  and  from  Boston  to  Portland,  Oregon. 
The  tour  was  to  end  in  Canada. 

The  fourth  appearance  happened  to  be  an  afternoon 
engagement  (November  15),  a  Benefit  for  the  Actors' 
Fund,  at  the  Broadway  Theater,  New  York,  in  which 
Nye  and  Riley  took  their  places  with  others  in  a 
variety  program — a  gathering  of  the  stars  of  the  pro 
fession.  Here  Riley  heard  Booth  and  Barrett  in  the 
fifth  act  of  Julius  Caesar.  Denman  Thompson  occu 
pied  a  box  with  his  family,  as  did  Mary  Anderson  also, 
surrounded  by  a  number  of  beautiful  young  women. 
Altogether  it  was  a  famous  afternoon. 

Two  days  later  the  combination  appeared  before 
and  to  the  delight  of  the  fun-loving  public  of  Washing 
ton.  Nye's  dog  story  and  Riley's  bear  story  were  the 
most  amusing  yams  that  had  been  told  in  the  capital 
since  the  days  of  Artemus  Ward. 

When  the  poet  reached  Hampton  Roads  he  found 
time  to  write  William  Carey  of  the  Century: 

Norfolk,  Virginia,  November  24,  1888. 
Dear  Carey: 

In  the  rush  and  whirl  of  business  I  think  it  will 
give  you  a  gasp  of  rest  to  know  that  Nye  and  I  are 
junketing  along  the  road.  So  far  our  experiences 
have  been  delightful.  At  Richmond  we  missed  Nelson 
Page,  but  met  such  a  chorus  of  his  friends  as  to  make 
the  visit  a  most  memorable  event.  Were  shown  the 
beautiful  old  city  "from  Genesis  to  the  Day  of  Judg 
ment/'  Called  at  "Washington's  headquarters,"  but 
found  the  gentleman  absent,  while  the  cherry  tree  that 
he  had  planted  still  flourished  and  went  on  being  lied 
about  with  never  a  lisp  or  whisper  of  reproach.  Saw 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  245 

General  Lee's  recumbent  figure  laid  in  matchless 
marble  rest,  and  Valentine  whose  lulling  chisel 
smoothed  the  eyelids  down  and  kissed  each  feature  to 
its  white  repose.  Three  or  four  different  times  I 
managed  to  shake  the  sculptor's  hand.  Things  like 
that  help  a  fellow;  whose  temperament  is  not  exactly 
plumb  on  every  side. 

As  Ever, 

JAMES  POPCORN  RILEY. 

At  Macon,  Georgia,  in  the  Lanier  House,  Riley  com 
pleted  "The  Old  Soldier's  Story,"  while  Nye,  to  please 
the  local  committee,  was  riding  over  rough  roads, 
listening  to  stories  badly  told  and  seeing  things  for 
the  "first  time"  he  had  seen  many  times  before.  Since 
leaving  New  York  Riley  had  ridden  and  lunched  and 
dined  with  committees  until  he  was  beginning  to  look 
and  feel  like  a  shadow  on  the  scenery.  He  had  there 
fore  declined  to  accompany  the  committee  in  Macon. 

"When  we  went  down  to  dinner,"  said  Riley,  "I 
made  up  my  mind  I  would  tell  Nye  another  stale  story, 
such  a  story  as  I  knew  he  had  been  feeding  on  that 
afternoon.  I  had,  unbeknown  to  him,  been  rehears 
ing  the  story  for  several  days.  I  began  to  tell  him  as 
earnestly  as  though  it  was  newer  than  the  hour,  the 
oldest  story  I  ever  heard.  I  heard  a  clown  tell  it  in 
the  Robinson  and  Lake  Circus  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
the  first  eternity  only  knows  how  old  it  had  to  be 
before  a  clown  would  be  allowed  to  use  it.  Nye  heard 
it  long  before  he  ever  heard  me  tell  it — the  old  man's 
story  of  the  soldier  carrying  his  wounded  comrade  off 
the  battle-field.  Well,  I  dragged  the  story  out  as  long 
as  I  could,  just  to  weary  Nye;  told  it  in  the  forgetful 
fashion  of  an  old  man  with  confused  memory ;  told  the 


246  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

point  two  or  three  times  before  I  came  to  it;  went 
back  again  to  pick  up  dropped  stitches  in  the  web; 
wandered  and  maundered,  made  it  as  long  and  dreary 
as  I  knew  how.  Nye  received  the  narrative  with  con 
vulsions  of  merriment.  He  choked  over  his  meat  and 
drink  until  he  quit  trying  to  eat  and  just  listened, 
giggled,  chuckled  and  roared.  He  declared  it  was  the 
best  thing  he  had  ever  heard  me  do  and  insisted  that 
I  put  it  in  our  program.  This,  at  first,  I  declined  to 
do,  but  Nye  was  so  earnest,  so  persistent  about  it,  that 
a  week  later,  at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  I  think  it  was, 
I  told  the  story  to  a  thousand  people.  In  theatrical 
parlance,  the  galleries  fell,  the  house  went  wild  and  I 
had  to  tell  it  again." 

A  paragraph  set  down  in  the  fashion  of  the  old 
story-teller,  gives  a  faint  idea  of  the  way  Riley  told  it : 

"I  heerd  an  awful  funny  thing  the  other  day — I 
don't  know  whether  I  kin  git  it  off  er  not,  but,  any 
how,  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Well! — Le's  see  now  how  the 
fool-thing  goes.  Oh,  yes! — W'y,  there  was  a  feller 
one  time — it  was  durin'  the  army  and  this  feller  that 
I  started  in  to  tell  you  about  was  in  the — war — and — 
there  was  a  big  fight  a-goin'  on,  and  this  feller  was 
in  the  fight — and — it  was  a  big  battle  and  bullets  a- 
flyin*  ever'  which  way,  and  bombshells  a-bu'stin',  and 
cannon  balls  a-flyin'  'round  promiskus ;  and  this  feller 
right  in  the  midst  of  it,  you  know,  and  all  excited  and 
het  up,  and  chargin'  away;  and — and  the  fust  thing 
you  know  along  come  a  cannon  ball  and  shot  his  head 
off — Hold  on  here  a  minute!  No,  sir;  I'm  a-gittin' 
ahead  of  my  story ;  no,  no ;  didn't  shoot  his  head  off — 
I'm  gittin'  the  cart  before  the  horse  there — shot  his 
leg  off;  that  was  the  way;  shot  his  leg  off";  (and  so 
on). 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  247 

To  listen  to  the  story  as  many  elocutionists,  after 
hearing  Riley,  have  tried  to  tell  it,  is  an  affliction 
which  no  audience  should  have  to  suffer.  The  ha-ha- 
ing  of  the  old  story-teller,  his  delicious  hesitations,  his 
hearty  chuckles  and  bewitching  bits  of  laughter  as  he 
proceeded — the  art  of  telling  it  as  the  poet  told  it  was 
lost  forever  in  his  passing. 

Three  months  after  Riley  told  the  story  in  Louis 
ville,  Mark  Twain  heard  him  tell  it  to  three  thousand 
people  in  Tremont  Temple,  Boston.  What  Twain's 
impressions  of  it  were,  he  has  told  in  his  delightful 
chapter,  "How  To  Tell  A  Story":  He  writes  in  part: 

"In  comic-story  form  the  story  is  not  worth  the  tell 
ing.  Put  into  the  humorous-story  form  it  takes  ten 
minutes,  and  is  about  the  funniest  thing  I  ever 
listened  to — as  James  Whitcomb  Riley  tells  it. 

"He  tells  it  in  the  character  of  a  dull-witted  old 
farmer  who  has  just  heard  it  for  the  first  time,  who  is 
innocent  and  happy  and  pleased  with  himself,  and  has 
to  stop  every  little  while  to  hold  himself  in  and  keep 
from  laughing  outright;  and  does  hold  in,  but  his  body 
quakes  in  a  jelly-like  way  with  interior  chuckles;  and 
at  the  end  of  the  ten  minutes  the  audience  have 
laughed  until  they  are  exhausted,  and  the  tears  are 
running  down  their  faces. 

"The  simplicity  and  innocence  and  sincerity  and 
unconsciousness  of  the  old  farmer  are  perfectly  simu 
lated,  and  the  result  is  a  performance  which  is 
thoroughly  charming  and  delicious.  This  is  art — and 
fine  and  beautiful,  and  only  a  master  can  compass  it; 
but  a  machine  could  tell  the  other  story." 

In  December  Nye  and  Riley  came  from  a  week  in 
Ohio  to  the  Grand  Opera  House,  Indianapolis,  Indi- 


248  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ana  had  just  celebrated  the  seventy-second  anniver 
sary  of  her  admission  into  the  Union,  and  marked  the 
occasion  of  the  first  general  use  of  Riley's  poems  in 
the  exercises  of  the  public  schools.  Riley  had  been 
absent  for  some  time  and  the  city  was  eager  to  give 
him  and  Nye  another  overflowing  welcome,  which  it 
did,  President-elect  Harrison  being  among  the  most 
appreciative  of  the  large  audience. 

From  the  day  they  began  touring  together,  Nye  and 
Riley  had  been  coaching  each  other  in  voice,  gesture, 
posture,  and  so  forth,  that  they  might  be  at  their  best 
before  the  footlights.  Each  gladly  accepted  the 
other's  instructions.  There  was  one  friend,  however, 
whose  criticism  at  that  time,  in  Riley's  opinion,  was 
unsurpassed.  He  had  been  helpful  from  the  very  be 
ginning  of  the  poet's  platform  experience.  His  last 
word  on  the  subject  was  written  the  morning  after 
this  Indianapolis  appearance. 

Indianapolis,  December  12,  1889. 
My  dear  Riley: 

I  was  at  your  performance  last  night  and  "I  never 
laughed  so  since  the  Thayers  were  hung/'  as  Artemus 
Ward  used  to  say.  Only  in  one  or  two  points  did  it 
seem  to  me  that  you  could  enhance  your  program, 
and  in  these  my  sense  may  be  at  fault.  You  will  for 
give  me  then  if  I  point  out  what  might  be,  as  I  see  it, 
an  improvement.  I  am  as  jealous  of  your  fame  as  if 
you  belonged  to  me  only,  instead  of  the  public.  Make 
your  own  carriage  and  utterances  as  dissimilar  as  pos 
sible  from  those  you  assume  in  the  character  you  illu 
strate.  For  instance,  the  embarrassed  caressing  of 
your  lips  with  your  hand  is  inimitable.  Be  careful 
not  to  do  it  when  you  come  on  the  rostrum  as  Whit- 
comb  Riley.  It  is  next  thing  to  scratching  your  head 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  249 

or  blowing  your  nose.  Avoid  any  trick  of  eye  or 
gesture  that  you  are  to  use  in  caricature  or  persona 
tion.  Commit  thoroughly  any  little  speech  or  preface 
you  have  to  make.  This  is  a  vital  point.  Make  it 
clear  that  Riley  in  person  is  equal  in  dignity,  poise  and 
breeding  to  any  in  the  audience.  It  is  Riley  the  artist 
who  commands  laughter,  pity,  cheers  and  tears. 

Take  this  from  an  old  friend — one  mean  enough  to 
be  your  stepfather  before  he  takes  a  step  farther. 
My  health  steadily  declines  but  "I  smile  on  you  now 
as  of  old." 

Your  faithful  friend, 

DAN  PAINE. 

Ten  years  before,  in  his  poem,  "Dan  Paine/'  Riley 
had  expressed  his  gratitude  to  this  patron  of  letters 
on  the  Indianapolis  News.  Often,  when  he  sat  "in 
gloomy  fellowship  with  care,"  his  heart  leaped  with 
warm  emotions  to  greet  the  friend  who  came  to  assure 
him  of  success: 

"A  something  gentle  in  thy  mien, 

A  something  tender  in  thy  voice, 
Has  made  my  trouble  so  serene, 
I  can  but  weep,  from  very  choice. 
And  even  then  my  tears,,  I  guess, 
Hold  more  of  sweet  than  bitterness, 
And  more  of  gleaming  shine  than  rain, 
Because  of  thy  bright  smile,  Dan  Paine. 

"The  wrinkles  that  the  years  have  spun 

And  tangled  round  thy  tawny  face, 
Are  kinked  with  laughter,  every  one, 
And  fashioned  in  a  mirthful  grace. 
And  though  the  twinkle  of  thine  eyes 
Is  keen  as  frost  when  Summer  dies, 
It  can  not  long  as  frost  remain 
While  thy  warm  soul  shines  out,  Dan  Paine." 


250  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  combination  had  opened  the  year  1889  in  New 
York  State.  Then  it  had  swung  westward  again 
through  Indiana,  and  onward  to  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa. 
February  came  with  a  date  at  Madison,  Wisconsin, 
and  by  the  end  of  the  month  the  attraction  had  re 
turned  to  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  Along  the  way  there 
had  been  correspondence  to  the  effect  that  "this  is  a 
poor  lecture  town  but  we  think  Nye  and  Riley  would 
draw."  To  annul  any  false  impression  about  the 
"inimitable  pair,"  a  circular  was  widely  circulated  ex 
plaining  that  the  "symposium"  was  not  a  lecture. 
Those  who  failed  to  buy  tickets  would  miss  an  excel 
lent  chance  to  add  length  to  their  days.  The  program 
for  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  suggests  the  character 
of  the  entertainment  in  other  cities : 

Gilmore's  Opera  House, 
Springfield,  Mass.,  February  26,  1889. 

NYE  AND  RILEY 
Programme 

I.  SIMPLY  A  PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE         Bill  Nye 

II.  STUDIES  IN  HOOSIER  DIALECT 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

III.  AT  THIS  POINT  MR.  NYE  WILL  INTERFERE 

WITH  AN  ANECDOTE  Bill  Nye 

IV.  THE  POETRY  OF  COMMONPLACE 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

V.  ONE  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LITERARY  GEMS, 

GIVEN  WITHOUT  NOTES  AND  No  GES 
TURES  TO  SPEAK  OF  Bill  Nye 

VI.  CHARACTER  SKETCH       James  Whitcomb  Riley 

VII.  A  STORY  FROM  SIMPLE  LIFE  Bill  Nye 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  251 

VIII.  CHILD  ECCENTRICITIES    James  Whitcomb  Riley 

IX.  SOMETHING  ELSE  Bill  Nye 

X.  THE  EDUCATOR  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

In  March  the  management  mailed  tc  cities  ahead 
another  large  show"  bill,  giving  the  report  of  the  com 
bination's  harvest  in  New  York,  Boston,  and  Phila 
delphia.  In  the  center  of  the  bill  was  the  famous 
cartoon  by  Walter  McDougall,  the  artist  of  the  New 
York  World — Nye  sitting  astride  an  elephant's  neck, 
with  fan  in  hand  and  his  plug  hat  on  the  elephant's 
brow;  Riley  under  an  umbrella,  with  a  book  of  poems 
in  his  hands,  sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  elephant's  back ; 
and  a  broad  streamer  on  the  elephant's  side — THE 
GREAT  NYE  AND  RILEY  COMBINED  MORAL  SHOW — and 
Major  Pond  leading  the  "show"  with  a  little  rope  tied 
to  the  elephant's  trunk. 

There  was  every  prospect  of  a  successful  season  in 
the  mountain  region  and  the  Pacific  slope,  but  in  April 
the  tour  suddenly  ended  at  Kansas  City,  owing  to  ill 
ness  in  Nye's  family.  The  combination  was  worn  out 
by  the  trials  of  the  road — every  week-day  night  as  Nye 
said,  and  sometimes  a  matinee,  or  a  "sacred  concert" 
on  Sunday.  "I  am  tired  of  making  a  holy  show  of 
myself.  This  is  the  business,"  he  added,  "that  makes 
a  man  want  to  take  a  swift  horse,  a  zealous  bird  dog 
and  an  improved  double-barrel  duck  destroyer  and 
commune  with  nature." 

"I  am  not  writing  any  thing  now,"  Riley  said  to  a 
Kansas  City  reporter.  "When  this  engagement  is 
over  I  want  to  hunt  some  big,  lonely  grave,  crawl  into 
it  and  pull  the  green  covering  over  me  for  a  dead- 
earnest  rest." 


252  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  interviews,  copied  quite  generally  throughout 
the  country,  afforded  the  press  opportunity  to  "strike 
a  blow  for  literary  freedom,"  and  in  some  sections  it 
proceeded  to  do  so.  "It  is  fortunate,"  said  the  Roch 
ester  Chronicle,  "that  the  dates  for  the  two  gentle 
men  have  been  cancelled.  Certainly  the  reputation  of 
neither  has  been  enhanced  and  the  literary  work  which 
they  have  attempted  to  do  in  their  travels,  writing  at 
hotels  or  on  the  cars,  has  been  of  a  character  decidedly 
inferior." 

"It  has  never  seemed  to  us  becoming  or  advanta 
geous,"  said  the  Pittsburgh  Dispatch,  "for  authors  of 
genuine  ability  to  fritter  away  their  time  and  strength 
upon  the  lecture  stage.  With  a  man  of  genius  like 
Riley  it  is  not  necessary  that  he  should  make  a  circus 
of  himself.  He  is  known  everywhere  now;  his  work 
is  universally  admired,  and  there  is  a  keen  demand 
for  more  of  his  delicious  lyrics.  They  are  not  forth 
coming.  Perhaps  he  will  abandon  the  circus  business 
and  resume  the  pursuit  of  the  Muse.  Then  every 
body,  the  Muse  included,  will  be  happy." 

In  the  face  of  these  strong  protests  it  is  all  the 
more  surprising  that  a  tour  of  thirty  weeks  was 
planned  for  1889  and  1890,  opening  in  Stamford,  Con 
necticut,  in  October.  As  in  the  two  previous  seasons 
there  was  an  abounding  public  interest  in  the  "literary 
team."  If  the  performance  was  better  one  place  than 
another,  possibly  the  favored  cities  were  Detroit  and 
Pittsburgh.  In  those  centers  the  newspapers  as  well 
as  the  crowds  fairly  boiled  over  with  enthusiasm,  even 
the  Pittsburgh  Dispatch  that  a  short  while  before  had 
deplored  the  frittering  away  of  time  and  strength  on 
the  lecture  stage.  "The  screaming  farce,"  said  the 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  253 

Dispatch,  "was  when  everybody  had  left  the  hall  and 
the  janitor  swooped  around  and  gathered  up  a  quart 
of  buttons.  Fun  and  merriment  reigned  in  various 
stages  the  whole  evening,  principally  the  superlative 
stage.  The  faces  of  the  audience  in  the  different  con 
tortions  that  the  excessive  mirth  produced,  were  a 
side-splitting  study  in  themselves.  The  hall  was  taxed 
to  the  utmost  to  accommodate  the  laughingly  shaking 
mass  of  humanity.  Round  after  round  and  peal  after 
peal  of  applause  and  laughter,  greeted  the  humorists 
at  every  move,  word  and  look." 

There  were  changes  here  and  there  in  the  program 
but  no  marked  difference  from  that  of  the  previous 
season.  Nye  made  a  hit  in  "a  literary  gem,"  an 
original  commencement  day  poem,  written  by  Riley, 
entitled  "The  Autumn  Leaves  Is  Falling" — 

"Lol  the  autumn  leaves  is  falling, 

Falling  here  and  there — • 
Falling  in  the  atmosphere 
And  likewise  in  the  air." 

To  see  Nye  reading  from  a  roll  of  manuscript  orna 
mented  with  a  blue  ribbon,  his  trembling  hands  sus 
tained  and  comforted  by  a  pair  of  white  cotton  gloves 
bought  expressly  for  the  occasion,  was  "an  offering," 
as  he  said,  "that  caused  the  audience  to  toss  pansies, 
violets,  potatoes,  turnips  and  other  tropical  shrubs  at 
the  author."  He  would  read  one  stanza  and  retire  be 
hind  the  curtain.  After  an  uproar  of  laughter  he 
would  come  forward  with  a  second  stanza  and  so  on, 
sometimes  answering  four  encores  in  that  way.  The 
audience  could  not  get  enough  of  "Autumn  Leaves." 

Riley  touched  his  hearers  deeply  with  the  pathetic 


254  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

story  of  an  old  shoemaker,  "How  Dutch  Frank  Found 
His  Voice."  Sentimental  feelings  were  awakened  by 
his  recital  of  "Her  Beautiful  Hands,"  and  fond  recol 
lections  by  his  new  poem,  "The  Old  Band." 

If  there  is  any  validity  in  the  ancient  belief  that 
the  disasters  that  befall  men  are  occasioned  by  their 
towering  prosperity  and  the  frown  of  the  gods  upon 
it  surely  Nemesis  was  working  industriously  on  the 
combination  in  January,  1890.  Up  to  that  time, 
praise  from  the  public  had  been  unstinted  and  con 
tinuous.  Nye's  bank  account,  according  to  Major 
Pond,  had  been  swelling  to  the  tune  of  one  thousand 
dollars  a  week.  Riley,  as  will  be  seen,  had  been  less 
fortunate.  The  first  week  in  January  Nye  suffered 
from  la  grippe  and  Riley  from  nervous  prostration. 
When  one  was  unable  to  face  the  footlights  the  other 
went  through  the  program  alone.  Each  day  through 
the  month  Riley  grew  more  apprehensive,  more  un 
happy.  Again  the  newspapers  bemoaned  his  absence 
in  the  field  of  letters. 

Looking  back  over  the  road  Riley  saw  two  new 
books,  Pipes  0'  Pan  at  Zekesbury,  and  the  beautiful 
Old-Fashioned  Roses,  the  latter  compiled  chiefly  from 
his  other  volumes,  for  publication  in  England.  This 
was  not  so  bad,  but  he  saw  also  that  since  he  and  Nye 
had  traveled  together  there  had  been  truly  a  dearth 
of  new  verse.  There  were  only  two  poems  which  gave 
him  pleasure  when  he  woke  in  the  night,  "two  little 
shining  summits,"  he  said,  "The  Poet  of  the  Future" 
and  "'Mongst  the  Hills  o'  Somerset."  The  latter, 
begun  in  the  Anderson  Hotel,  Pittsburgh,  and  finished 
on  the  train,  had  been  suggested  by  the  casual  remark 
of  an  editor  praising  the  beauty  of  the  hills  and  nooks 


THE  UNIQUE  COMBINATION  255 

of  Somerset  County,  Pennsylvania,  part  of  old  Bedford 
County,  where  the  poet's  father  and  grandparents  had 
lived  before  they  came  to  Indiana. 

Two  "shining"  poems  in  two  seasons  on  the  lecture 
platform!  It  had  not  been  thus  in  the  poetic  pros 
perity  of  years  gone  by.  Riley's  heart  sank  within 
him,  and  as  in  other  and  previous  periods  of  de 
pression,  he  again  became  the  victim  of  his  dragon, 
his  old-time  foe,  the  blue  flame.  Friends  wept,  as 
Scotchmen  wept  for  Burns,  but,  alas,  the  malady  was 
not  to  be  remedied  by  weeping. 

Another  cause,  an  immediate  one,  contributed  to  the 
dissolution  of  the  combination.  In  April,  1885,  Riley 
had  signed  a  five-year  contract  with  the  Western 
Lyceum  Agency,  whereby  its  manager  was  to  receive 
half  the  receipts.  "With  no  more  business  sense  than 
an  oyster — a  cove  oyster,"  said  Riley,  "I  signed  the 
papers.  In  those  days  I  believed  implicitly  in  men. 
My  faith  and  ignorance  were  such  that  had  a  man 
brought  me  my  death  warrant  I  would  have  signed  it 
without  reading,  or  had  I  read  the  thing  I  would  not 
have  comprehended  it." 

In  due  time  came  the  season  of  prosperity,  and  Riley 
received  four  hundred  dollars  a  week,  fifty  per  cent, 
of  which  went  to  the  agency.  After  the  combination 
had  become  a  bonanza,  the  terms  were  modified  and 
the  contract  transferred  to  Major  Pond.  Riley  was 
to  receive  sixty  dollars  a  night,  one-third  of  which  was 
to  be  paid  to  the  Western  Agency,  although  it  con 
tributed  but  little  to  the  great  success.  In  the  large 
cities  the  receipts  were  considerably  more  than  one 
thousand  dollars  a  night.  In  Chicago,  for  instance, 
there  were  sixteen  hundred  dollars  at  the  second  per- 


256  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

formance  within  six  weeks,  "with  five  hundred  people 
turned  away  from  the  door/'  Still  Riley 's  share  was 
the  "paltry  forty  dollars."  As  time  passed,  this  in 
justice  became  intolerable  to  him.  He  had  not  "the 
business  sense  of  an  oyster,  but/'  as  he  said,  "an 
oyster  would  know  that  that  was  not  a  square  division 
of  the  profits."  As  a  brilliant  Indiana  lawyer  said, 
"The  Western  Agency  sold  the  poet  to  Pond — sold 
James  Whitcomb  Riley  into  slavery.  On  the  last  tour, 
one  of  the  most  successful  on  the  American  stage, 
Riley  received  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  profits  al 
though  he  was  giving  half  the  show.  We  of  Indiana 
tearfully  regret  the  result,  but  it  should  not  excite 
surprise  that  the  poet,  the  victim  of  a  malignant 
temptation,  grew  gloomy  over  the  slavery  and  took  to 
drink  to  drown  his  sorrow." 

(Afterward  in  the  days  of  his  platform  prosperity, 
he  did  not  drown  his  sorrow  in  that  way.  He  resisted 
the  temptation.  Again  and  again,  at  banquets  and 
receptions, — "deceptions,"  he  called  them, — he  and  his 
manager  were  the  only  guests  who  turned  the  wine 
cup  down.) 

Determined  to  have  "the  pound  of  flesh,"  the  man 
ager  of  the  Western  Agency  began  to  shadow  the  poet 
from  city  to  city,  a  course  that  was  as  ill-advised  as 
it  was  unforgivable.  Once  aware  of  this  "Riley  be 
came/'  to  quote  Nye,  "a  wild,  riotous,  blazing,  uncon 
trollable  Vesuvius.  That  instant  the  combination 
began  coasting  toward  the  crash." 

January,  1890,  the  partnership  was  dissolved,  the 
tour  that  was  to  have  embraced  the  cities  of  the  plains, 
the  Pacific  coast  and  the  British  possessions  coming 
abruptly  to  an  end  at  Louisville,  Kentucky. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS 

WHEN  Riley  woke  from  the  night  of  despair 
at  Louisville,  his  first  thought  was  that  he 
"would  be  neglected  like  a  fallen  skyrocket. 
The  wind,  a  bleak,  vindictive  wind,"  he  said,  "had 
been  blowing  and  sobbing  till  the  icicles  on  the  eaves 
looked  dismal  and  weary.  My  faculties  had  been 
enchained.  Furies,  seen  and  unseen,  seemed  to  be 
unwinding  for  me  the  skein  of  an  awful  destiny." 

To  all  appearances  it  was  indeed  a  frozen,  desolate 
world  and  to  Riley  it  seemed  that  he  was  the  most 
unloved  object  in  it.  But  within  a  week  it  was  evi 
dent  that  his  genius  could  not  be  obscured  by  his 
weakness.  A  man  could  make  a  mistake  and  still  be 
a  man.  "The  world,"  wrote  Eugene  Field,  "will 
not  suffer  the  beauty  of  Riley's  work  and  the  sym 
metry  of  his  literary  reputation  to  be  ruthlessly  shat 
tered  by  the  iconoclasm  of  his  personal  weakness." 

A  paraphrase  of  an  old  English  greeting  (the 
language  of  Pope)  expresses  the  attitude  of  his 
Hoosier  friends  and  neighbors  toward  the  poet  in  that 
hour  of  his  extremity:  Welcome  to  your  native  soil! 
welcome  to  your  friends,  whether  returned  with  honor 
and  filled  with  agreeable  hopes;  or  melancholy  with 
dejection.  If  happy,  we  partake  of  your  elevation;  if 
unhappy,  you  still  have  a  warm  corner  in  our  hearts. 

257 


258  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Whatever  you  are  and  in  whatever  state  you  are  we 
are  with  you. 

"Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave,"  remarked 
Eugene  V.  Debs  to  a  circle  of  critics,  "are  dark  blots 
resting  on  the  cliffs  of  time,  which  we  would  sweep 
away  if  we  could.  But  the  blots  are  there.  Let  us 
be  merciful  that  we  may  obtain  mercy." 

Before  leaving  Louisville  Nye  bade  Riley  an  affec 
tionate  good-by.  Certain  reports,  falsely  attributed 
to  him,  but  really  emanating  from  the  Western  Lyceum 
Agency,  had  been  going  the  rounds  of  the  press.  They 
were  grossly  exaggerated  and  painfully  damaging.  A 
few  days  after  reaching  New  York,  Nye  was  heard  to 
say  that  he  "would  give  the  wealth  of  Indiana  could 
the  press  recall  them." 

At  first  Riley  was  strongly  disinclined  to  make  any 
comment,  but  finally  on  his  return  to  Indianapolis  he 
said:  "I  have  seen  only  the  first  reports  and  they 
shocked  me  so  terribly  that  I  have  not  had  the  cour 
age  to  review  any  more  of  them.  Soon  the  public  will 
see  the  spirit  of  malice  and  anger  and  revenge  which 
pervades  them.  They  are  their  own  condemnation. 

"I  am  especially  blest  in  the  number  of  my  warm 
friends.  They  need  no  explanation  of  these  reports. 
One  of  the  truest  of  them  is  Bill  Nye.  His  fealty  to 
me  is  beyond  all  question.  We  parted  friends,  as  we 
have  always  been  and  always  will  be.  He  understands 
and  I  understand.  We  are  wholly  congenial,  and  a 
better,  gentler  man  I  never  knew. 

"I  desire  to  stand  before  the  public  only  as  I  am. 
My  weaknesses  are  known,  and  I  am  willing  for  the 
world  to  judge  whether  in  my  life  or  writings  there 
has  been  anything  dishonorable.  I  do  not  say  that  in 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         259 

this  blight  which  has  fallen  on  me,  I  am  innocent  of 
blame.  I  have  been  to  some  degree  derelict  and  cul 
pable.  The  whole  affair  is  to  be  regretted  and  for  the 
present  I  have  to  accept  the  responsibility. 

"I  have  always  been  a  firm  believer  in  the  doctrine 
that  ruin,  where  undeserved,  can  be  but  temporary, 
and  now  I  have  an  opportunity  to  see  my  belief  tested. 
I  do  not  desire  to  say  anything  harsh  of  anybody,  and 
for  the  present,  at  least,  am  content  to  wait  for  better 
things.  I  am  sustained  by  the  renewed  expressions 
of  affection  from  my  friends." 

It  seems  fitting,  now  that  the  partnership  has  been 
dissolved,  that  Riley  should  have  a  further  word  about 
Nye.  Always  Nye  was  Joe  and  Riley  was  Pip  of 
Great  Expectations.  ("Ever  the  best  of  friends ;  ain't 
us,  Pip?")  "The  gentlest  and  cheeriest  of  men," 
said  Riley.  "Nye  has  the  heart  of  a  woman  and 
the  tenderness  of  a  child.  Always  in  good  humor, 
never  finicky,  I  could  not  imagine  a  more  charm 
ing  traveling  companion.  We  were  constantly  play 
ing  practical  jokes  on  each  other  or  indulging  in 
some  mischievous  banter  before  the  audience.  On  one 
occasion,  coming  before  the  footlights  for  a  word  of 
general  introduction,  Mr.  Nye  said,  'Ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,  the  entertainment  to-night  is  of  a  dual  nature. 
Mr.  Riley  and  I  will  speak  alternately.  First  I  come 
out  and  talk  until  I  get  tired,  then  Mr.  Riley  comes  out 
and  talks  until  you  get  tired!'  Thus  the  sallies  and 
kickshaws  bubbled  merrily  on,  every  night  something 
new  to  spring  on  the  audience.  Besides  I  learned  to 
know  in  Bill  Nye  a  man  blessed  with  as  noble  and 
heroic  a  heart  as  ever  beat.  But  the  making  of  trains, 
which  were  all  in  conspiracy  to  outwit  me,  schedule  or 


260  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

310  schedule,  and  the  rush  and  tyrannical  pressure  of 
inviolable  engagements,  some  hundred  to  a  season  and 
from  Boston  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  were  a  distress 
to  my  soul.  Imagine  yourself  on  a  crowded  day-long 
excursion;  imagine  that  you  had  to  ride  all  the  way 
on  the  platform  of  the  car ;  then  imagine  that  you  had 
to  ride  all  the  way  back  on  the  same  platform;  and 
lastly,  try  to  imagine  how  you  would  feel  if  you  did 
that  every  day  of  your  life — and  you  will  then  get  a 
glimmer — a  faint  glimmer — of  how  one  feels  after 
traveling  about  on  a  reading  or  lecturing  tour." 

After  Riley's  public  statement,  expressions  of 
tenderness  and  faith  were  heard  on  every  side.  Let 
ters  and  telegrams  came  from  remote  quarters  of  the 
country.  The  local  spirit  of  good  will  crystallized  in 
a  reception  to  him  given  by  the  Indianapolis  Literary 
Club,  an  association  of  gentlemen  that  included  lead 
ing  jurists,  clergymen,  lawyers,  physicians  and 
writers.  It  was  the  sentiment  of  the  Club  that  Riley 
had  shed  luster  on  Indiana  and  would  continue  to  do 
so. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  both  were  present  with  guests 
from  other  cities  of  the  state.  The  reception  was  in 
tended  to  be  a  local  one,  but  what  happened  crept  on 
to  the  wires.  It  was  good  news  and  papers  through 
out  the  country  printed  it.  "Whitcomb  Riley,"  said 
the  Chicago  Mail,  "remains  king  on  his  native  heath, 
despite  recent  derogatory  reports.  The  Indianapolis 
Literary  Club  has  arranged  to  give  him  a  reception, 
just  by  way  of  showing  that  Indiana  takes  no  stock  in 
the  stories.  In  this  age  a  poet  is  not  without  honor  in 
his  own  corner  of  the  world."  "The  people  of  Indi 
anapolis,"  said  the  Kansas  City  Star,  "have  set  an 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         261 

example  worthy  of  imitation.  The  Hoosier  Poet  re 
turned  to  them  a  few  days  ago,  and  they  received  him 
gladly  and  resolved  to  stand  by  him.  This  is  a  lesson 
of  fair  treatment  which  should  not  go  unheeded.  It 
says  to  other  communities,  Go  and  do  likewise." 

Only  those  who  have  passed  through  a  personal 
crisis,  an  overwhelming  shadow,  can  know  what 
Riley's  feelings  were  when  he  faced  his  friends  in 
the  Indianapolis  Literary  Club.  Ten  years  he  had 
been  associated  with  them.  It  seemed  to  him,  he  said 
after  the  reception,  that  the  betrayal  of  his  weakness 
had  only  strengthened  their  affection.  "Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  he  began,  "I  can  not  find  words  to  express 
my  gratitude  for  this  display  of  your  confidence.  I 
hope  I  shall  not  abuse  it  in  the  future  as  I  have  to 
some  extent  in  the  past.  I  shall  hope  the  better  to 
deserve  it.  I  really  can  not  thank  you.  I  am  bereft 
of  language  when  I  attempt  it." 

The  Club  did  what  it  could  to  relieve  the  poet  of 
grim  recollections.  His  staunch  lawyer  friend,  Wil 
liam  P.  Fishback,  in  a  spicy  speech  claimed  for  law 
yers  kinship  with  the  poets.  Neither  profession,  he 
said,  tolerated  humbuggery  and  charlatanism.  With 
sparkling  wit  he  continued  the  comparison.  Lastly 
he  assured  Riley  of  the  Club's  unbroken  fealty.  He 
was  especially  proud  of  the  fact  that  Indiana  knew 
Riley  was  a  poet  "long  before  Lowell,  or  Howells,  or 
other  pinnacles  of  intelligence  in  the  East  knew  it." 

Judge  Livingstone  Howland  was  most  happy  at  the 
close  of  his  remarks  in  his  paraphrase  of  the  line  from 
Gray's  "Elegy."  He  was  on  the  program  for  an 
obiter  dictum.  "You  may  not  know  what  that  means," 
said  the  Judge.  "Among  lawyers  it  stands  for  some- 


262  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

thing  that  is  good  for  nothing  as  authority  and  entitled 
to  no  respect  whatever.  Therefore  I  do  not  feel  any 
deep  sense  of  responsibility  for  what  I  may  say  here 
to-night.  Mr.  Fishback  has  in  his  own  bright  way, 
placed  poets  and  lawyers  in  conjunction,  and  sought 
to  show  how  much  good  they  have  in  common.  He 
seems  to  have  had  a  purpose  in  taking  advantage  of 
the  present  flood  of  popular  feeling  toward  a  poet 
(whom  it  is  unnecessary  to  name)  to  lift  our  honor 
able  profession  above  the  level  at  which  it  has  lately 
stood  in  the  public  estimation. 

"Now  I  fear,"  continued  the  Judge,  "that  in  the 
mind  of  the  masses — the  common  run  of  people — the 
marked,  distinguishing  characteristic  of  our  pro 
fession  is  a  total  disregard  for  truth;  they,  the  multi 
tude,  think  a  lawyer  will  say  whatever  he  is  paid  to 
say,  will  take  it  all  back  the  next  day,  if  better  paid  to 
do  so,  and  cares  nothing  for  the  eternal  verities.  In 
plain,  blunt  speech,  we  are,  to  the  common  mind,  pro 
fessional  liars.  You  have  seen  how  my  friend  Fish- 
back,  one  of  the  brightest  and  liveliest  of  the  brother 
hood,  has  been  touched  by  the  poet's  wand,  has  been 
softened,  opened,  expanded,  illuminated  and  trans 
formed — his  fine  face  glowing  with  feeling,  his  soul  in 
ecstasy.  To  my  mind  no  finer  tribute  has  been  paid 
Mr.  Riley  to-night  than  this  single  fact — this  practical 
demonstration  of  his  power.  It  sustains  his  title  to 
poetic  genius,  his  ability  to  exercise  the  highest  func 
tion  of  true  poesy — to  wake  to  ecstasy  the  living  liar." 

At  the  close  of  the  reception  Riley  had  been  so  re 
established  in  his  own  mind  and  so  encouraged  that 
he  was  persuaded  to  recite  two  selections — one, 
"Tradin*  Joe,"  among  the  very  earliest  of  his  produc- 


Courtesy  The  Indianapolis  Literary  Club 

WILLIAM  P.  FISHBACK,  "WHO  WITH  GREATEST  ZEST  SHAEED  WITH  THE 

NEEDIEST" 
From  a  portrait  by  T.  C.  Steel  e 


FEOM  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT  WITH  ILLUSTRATION.     THE  POEM  WRITTEN 
ON  THE  ASSASSINATION  OF  PRESIDENT  GABFIELD 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         263 

tions;  the  other,  his  latest  poem,  "The  Little  Man  in 
the  Tin  Shop." 

Thus  did  the  Hoosiers  rally  round  their  favorite 
son.  Other  cities  did  likewise.  "How  quickly,"  re 
marked  a  friend,  "can  a  smile  of  God  change  the 
world."  Soon  Riley  was  the  guest  of  the  Blue  Grass 
Club  in  Louisville,  and  the  Glenarm  Club  in  Denver. 
It  was  his  first  visit  to  the  Far  West.  The  reception 
was  on  an  elaborate  scale,  arranged  by  Myron  Reed. 
"The  poet,"  said  the  preacher,  "was  the  guest  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains." 

The  evidence  of  affection  in  the  messages  Riley  re 
ceived  would  make  a  book.  Especially  loyal  was  his 
old  comrade  of  the  Hawkeye — "Always,  always  and 
always  your  friend,  Robert  J.  Burdette."  "Why 
should  you  promise  a  crowd  of  people  that  you  will  try 
'to  deserve  their  respect'?"  he  wrote.  "You  have  not 
lost  it.  You  have  the  profoundest  respect  of  your 
friends.  It  has  never  wavered  or  faltered.  And  you 
are  not  going  to  lose  it." 

Riley  had  little  to  answer,  except  to  suggest  that 
there  is  at  bottom  a  spirit  of  good  in  lost  battles.  An 
early  fragment  gave  a  glimpse  of  his  feelings: 


"The  burdened  heart  is  lighter 

When  the  fault  has  been  confessed, 
And  the  day  of  life  is  brighter 
When  the  good  is  manifest. 


"So  all  the  shadows  looming 

In  the  dusk  shall  fade  away, 
And  sweetest  flowers  be  blooming 
In  the  furrows  of  decay." 


264  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Riley  began  bravely,  hoping  that  he  might  in  some 
extraordinary  way  answer  all  communications,  but 
the  task  soon  proved  to  be  a  hopeless  one.  A  few 
letters  reveal  his  gratitude  as  expressed  in  a  hundred 
or  more.  "As  to  the  recent  disaster,"  he  wrote  Ed 
ward  S.  Van  Zile  of  the  New  York  World,  "were  I  as 
pitiless  as  my  assailant,  I  could  far  better  defend  my 
self  than  I  have.  As  it  is,  I  have  never  uttered  his 
name,  nor  suffered  it  to  be  extorted  by  any  skill  or 
cunning  of  reporters — believing  no  wrong  can  so 
secretly  hide  itself  away  as  not  to  be  in  happy  time 
unearthed  and  its  pelt  nailed  on  the  gable  end  of  the 
barn,  as  our  own  dear  Nye  would  doubtless  put  it. 
Give  him  my  best  love  if  you  see  him." 

Riley  was  especially  gracious  in  a  letter  to  a 
stranger  in  Nebraska,  one  of  the  thousand  unknown 
friends  similarly  tortured,  who  had  "prayed  God  to 
be  kind  to  the  poet." 

The  New  Denison, 
Indianapolis,  March  4,  1890. 
Dear  Sir  and  friend: 

You  have  written  a  letter  that  does  me  good  clean 
through.  I  am  very  proud  of  it,  and  shall  treasure  it 
among  my  rarest  prizes  and  most  goodly  gifts.  When 
you  wrote  that,  I  doubt  not  God  was  in  your  pleasant 
neighborhood.  All  you  say  was  said  of  the  best  right, 
because  righteously  inspired.  A  sincere  voice  is  never 
— can  not  be  discordant.  I  thank  you  beyond  words 
for  the  gracious  utterance  of  every  syllable. 
Always  and  enduringly  yours, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

Indianapolis,  February  9,  1890. 
Dear  Dan  Paine: 

Your  letter  was  so  jolly!  I  would  rather  have  you 
at  my  funeral  than  my  own  folks,  and  hope  you  will 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         265 

manage  to  be  there.  As  to  my  present  trouble,  you 
have  "sized"  the  situation  exactly — as  I  knew  you 
would.  Some  acquire  "nagging" — Some  have  "nag 
ging"  thrust  upon  them.  Till  now  I  have  been  of  the 
latter  class,  and  in  that  line  could  almost  "point  to 
myself  with  pride."  Next  time,  however,  they  will 
have  to  "down"  me  by  some  other  process;  and,  amid 
the  general  wreck,  it  is  pleasant,  at  least,  to  think  the 
press  of  the  United  States  and  Canada  have,  along 
with  other  gratuitous  information,  been  made  ac 
quainted  with  my  fixed  intent — the  best  one  of  my 
life. 

Some  very  neighborly  and  wholesome  reveries  drop 
in  on  me  now  and  then,  and  close  the  door  softly  after 
them,  and  sit  down  as  of  old,  and  gossip  pleasantly 
in  restful,  once-in-a-while  voices.  The  embers  bloom, 
the  clock  ticks,  and  the  kettle  simmers,  and  a  most 
gracious  peace  is  mine  once  more.  That  is  a  pretty 
good  condition,  is  it  not,  for  a  fellow,  dear  old  man, 
compared  with  the  eternal  racket  and  worry  and 
hurry  of  the  world, — unvisited  by  any  hint  of  rest — 
where  one  gropes  through  the  cinders  to  his  nightly 
berth,  and  tosses  through  the  sullen  watches,  yawning 
and  sighing  like  a  leaky  bellows,  as  he  thinks  of  being 
hustled  out  again  at  dawn  and  thrusting  his  cold,  re 
lentless  legs  through  a  pair  of  trousers  cold  as  candle 
moulds. 

Soon  as  I  am  out  again  I  am  coming  up  to  see  you, 
and,  in  return,  to  chirk  you  up  a  little.  To  show  you, 
by  comparison,  that  being  shut  in  all  the  time,  as  you 
have  been,  is  even  better  fare  than  mine  in  the  "free 
air,"  "the  wild,  rapturous  rush  of  the  chase,"  and  the 
ever-beckoning  bobtail  of  the  nimble  nickel  as  he 
"vanishes  away"  in  the  dim  dark  distance. 

As  ever  your  affectionate  and  grateful  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 

"If  Riley's  verse,"  said  a  Canadian  journal,  "is  evi 
dence  of  his  mental  condition  under  the  influence  of 


266  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

liquor,  it  would  be  well  if  all  our  magazine  versifiers 
would  discover  his  brand  and  use  the  same."  The 
suggestion  recalls  Lincoln's  remark  about  General 
Grant,  but  Riley  no  more  wrote  his  poems  while  drink 
ing  than  did  Grant  move  his  army  to  Richmond  in  a 
state  of  intoxication.  In  periods  of  thanksgiving 
after  he  had  escaped  from  the  clutches  of  his  enemy, 
Riley  wrote  exquisite  verse.  His  genius  reached  the 
pinnacle  of  achievement  in  a  two-year  total  absti 
nence  period. 

In  certain  quarters  it  was  held  that  there  was  "too 
much  digging  away  at  the  Hoosier  Poet's  private  char 
acter";  his  poetry  belonged  to  the  people;  his  virtues 
and  vices  were  his  own.  Madison  Cawein,  in  after- 
years  a  guest  of  the  poet  at  his  home  in  Lockerbie 
Street,  held  persistently  to  this  opinion.  A  resident 
of  Louisville,  he  was  familiar  with  what  had  happened 
there.  "Riley,"  he  said  on  one  occasion,  "you  should 
write  your  own  biography.  A  man's  infirmities  are 
his  own  affair,  and  it  is  his  right  to  deny  them  pub 
licity." 

"He  that  covereth  his  sins  shall  not  prosper,"  re 
turned  Riley.  "As  to  a  biography,  I  have  neither  the 
time  nor  the  inclination."  This  led  to  talk  about 
biography,  Cawein  holding  to  the  exclusion  of  such 
blemishes  as  the  Louisville  incident.  "Not  at  all," 
said  Riley.  "It  was  an  unpleasant,  regrettable  thing, 
I  know,  but  it  happened,  happened  conspicuously.  It 
was  another  turning  point  in  my  history." 

Cawein  had  touched  a  vital  point,  and  Riley  soon 
became  so  earnest  and  interesting  that  he  was  per 
mitted  to  do  all  the  talking.  This  substantially  is 
what  he  said:  "I  read  a  sketch  of  an  author  in  a 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         267 

magazine  the  other  day.  'His  character  is  without 
blemish  from  his  earliest  years/  it  said.  Why  write 
like  that  about  any  man?  It  is  false;  the  reader 
knows  it  is  false,  and  the  writer  knew  it  when  he 
wrote  it.  It  is  the  old  New  England  way  of  making 
authors  perfect.  Nobody  believes  it.  I  prefer  the 
biography  of  Mark  Twain.  Biography  should  have 
shadows  in  it,  like  those  in  the  Bible.  There  is  King 
David,  breaker  of  the  eighth  and  tenth  Command 
ments,  wronging  himself  and  others  to  satisfy  his 
carnal  nature.  He  was  a  chief  among  sinners.  Do 
you  know,  my  friend,  that  you  southerners  would  burn 
men  at  the  stake  for  sins  David  committed?  And  yet 
this  same  King  David  was  a  poet,  the  best  one  in  the 
Bible. 

"When  I  was  a  young  man,"  continued  Riley,  "the 
old  philosopher,  Bronson  Alcott  came  to  Indiana  with 
his  conversations.  A  crowd  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  men 
and  women  collected  about  him.  He  sat  in  a  chair  and 
answered  questions — had  much  to  say  about  the  dual 
nature  of  man.  Man  had  two  natures;  one  he  called 
the  Deuce,  the  other,  the  Angel.  We  had  here  at  the 
time,  the  chaplain  of  a  little  flock  somewhere  on  the 
edge  of  town,  a  'sanctified*  man.  How  do  I  know? 
He  said  he  was.  I  see  him  now  in  his  come-to-Jesus 
coat,  striding  self-righteously  along  the  street.  He 
was  as  dead  to  the  moral  needs  of  our  community  as 
the  flag-pole  on  the  Journal  Works.  Well,  he  was 
among  those  present  and  rose  to  confuse  the  philos 
opher,  as  he  thought. 

"'Who  is  this  Deuce  you  talk  so  much  about?'  he 
asked. 

"'You,  yourself,  sir/  returned  Alcott,  'are  the  an- 


268  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

swer  to  your  query.  You  amaze  me  that  you  have  lived 
so  long  with  him  and  have  not  known  him.' 

"The  Deuce,"  concluded  Riley,  "was  in  King  David 
as  he  is  in  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  and  the  Hoosier 
Poet.  The  Deuce  works  iniquity.  But  David  had  also 
the  Angel  in  him.  That  made  him  a  poet.  The  Angel 
wrote  the  Psalms.  The  Angel  made  him  the  man  after 
God's  own  heart.  A  biography,  to  be  worth  reading, 
must  be  an  authentic  experience,  tell  of  things  in  the 
Bible  way,  tell  of  the  Deuce  as  well  as  the  Angel,  that 
the  one  may  be  hated  and  avoided,  and  the  other  loved 
and  emulated.  You  shall  not  say  of  your  subject  that 
his  character  is  without  blemish.  Mark  Twain  once 
told  me  that  he  was  always  haunted  by  a  little  bad  man, 
and  that  sometimes  the  little  devil  got  the  upper  hand 
of  good  intentions.  Twain  said  that  his  life  was  like 
Australia — picturesque,  full  of  surprises  and  adven 
tures  and  incongruities  and  contradictions  and  in 
credibilities.  There  were  the  facts,  Twain  added; 
they  could  not  be  dodged ;  they  all  happened." 

"Every  hour  of  every  day,"  Riley  said  once  to  a  re 
porter,  "I  stand  up  in  front  of  myself  and  say  it  shall 
not  be  this  way;  and  it  is  this  way.  You  might  as 
well  try  to  stop  a  cyclone,  turn  an  iceberg  from  its 
midnight  path  through  the  sea." 

As  in  the  gloom  of  the  Poe-Poem  forgery,  so  after 
the  painful  reports  from  Louisville  many  said,  "This 
is  the  end  of  the  Hoosier  Poet's  fame."  But  again 
such  prophecies  were  false.  Within  two  weeks  he  de 
clined  an  offer  of  two  hundred  dollars  a  night.  "The 
poet  and  I  will  travel  in  my  private  car,"  said  the 
theatrical  manager  who  made  the  offer:  "I  will  make 
him  one  of  the  greatest  attractions  on  the  road." 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         269 

The  offer  was  declined.  Friends  protested  strongly 
against  a  possible  repetition  of  the  lecture  disasters. 
"At  heart/'  wrote  Frank  G.  Carpenter,  "Riley  is  what 
his  poems  show  him  to  be — a  great  big  boy  with  a  soul 
in  sympathy  with  the  good,  the  true  and  the  beautiful. 
He  bestows  mercy  on  the  sinful,  and  has  a  kindly  feel 
ing  toward  all  that  is  sad  and  sorrowful  in  humanity. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  such  a  man  should  not 
sell  his  soul  for  one-half  its  profits  to  an  advertising 
agent." 

Never  agwn  will  I  devote  my  time  the  year  round  to 
the  lecture  yl&tform — such  was  the  poet's  resolution. 
Many  temptations  came  to  break  it,  but  he  kept  his 
word.  Three  men  signally  strengthened  the  resolu 
tion.  "For  your  art's  sake,"  wrote  Meredith  Nichol 
son,  "I  hope  you  are  out  of  the  platform  business  for 
good.  You  will  now  do  what  I  have  presumed  to 
preach  to  you  for  a  long  time,  the  making  of  serious 
verse." 

"Count  on  me  to  the  death,"  wrote  Hamlin  Gar 
land.  "I  was  afraid  you  were  doing  too  much.  You  are 
worn  out.  Take  a  good  rest  and  go  back  to  writing. 
What's  the  use,  if  you  have  money  enough  to  live  on? 
We  want  Whitcomb  Riley's  poems.  We  don't  like 
this  knocking  about  the  country  wearing  himself  out. 
We  always  talked  plainly  to  each  other,  did  we  not? 
So  I  say  I  would  rather  see  you  a  poor  poet  in  a  gar 
ret  than  a  lecturer  in  the  hands  of  a  money-grabber. 
It's  an  ill  wind  that  drives  no  soul  to  port." 

Later  Rudyard  Kipling  wrote  from  Battleboro,  Ver 
mont:  "It  is  good  to  hear  about  your  fleecing  the 
Egyptians,  but  remember  that  reading,  though  it  does 
not  feel  that  way  at  first  by  reason  of  the  excitement, 


270  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

has  the  knack  of  breaking  a  man  up  into  little  pieces, 
and  it  is  possible  to  buy  money  too  dearly.  Therefore, 
appoint  a  time  and  limit,  or  the  dear  public  out  of  its 
very  kindness  will  merely  kill  you  and  then  wonder 
why  in  the  world  you  died.  I  have  seen  so  many  men 
go  that  way  that  I  am  a  bit  scared  and  the  more  be 
cause  they  tell  me  your  readings  are  great,  which 
means  that  you  put  a  lot  of  yourself  into  them.  You 
will  not  find  me  on  the  warpath  yet  awhile.  I  would 
go  far  to  listen  to  you — and  some  day  we  will  meet." 

Ever  after,  the  poet  appointed  "a  time  and  limit" 
to  lecturing.  He  and  Nye  had  an  agreement  with  their 
manager  that  they  were  to  have  one  day  a  week  for 
writing,  but  the  booking  had  been  so  close  that  Sunday 
was  the  only  open  day,  which  to  some  minds,  accounted 
for  the  inferiority  of  their  product,  a  few  boldly  affirm 
ing  that  it  was  inferior  because  written  on  Sunday. 
Painfully  conscious  of  his  failure,  it  was  no  surprise 
to  his  nearest  friends,  that  Riley  desired  to  give  both 
the  public  and  himself  a  rest;  "and  if  mine  should  be 
long,  deep  and  profound,"  he  wrote  Benjamin  Parker, 
"I  could  with  a  quavering  sigh  of  relief,  slacken  the 
belt  of  my  shroud  and  pile  down  like  the  print  of  a 
small  boy  in  the  snow." 

Scarcely  had  he  "paused  to  take  breath,"  as  he 
phrased  it,  when  the  demand  for  his  "writings  in 
creased  to  an  extent  that  was  astounding  and  bewilder- 
ingly  unaccountable."  And  then  the  Muse  "dropped 
in"  to  see  him.  "Here  it  had  been  raining  for  days 
and  days  and  likewise  some  other  days  and  days,"  he 
wrote  a  distant  friend;  "kind  of  a  serial  rain,  the 
author  of  which  seems  to  be  trying  to  produce  some- 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  FORGIVENESS         271 

thing  longer  and  more  tedious  than  Middlemarch. 
And  so  last  night  I  began  as  I  thought  to  succumb  to 
its  dread  influence,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  melan 
choly  poem — with  what  result?  Why  bless  you,  that 
little  poem  ('The  Little-Red  Apple  Tree')  just  laid 
back  and  laughed  and  laughed  like  somebody  was 
ticklin'  its  feet!  And  I  was  so  jollied  up  by  it  that  I 
laughed  with  it,  and  the  pair  of  us  (the  poem  and  I) 
well-nigh  raised  the  neighbors." 

By  July  (1890)  the  demand  had  become  so  great 
that  he  was  "driven  to  the  verge  of  brain-softening  by 
publishers,  editors,  interviewers,  side  managers  and 
alluring  orders."  Innumerable  orders,  but  how  was 
he  to  fill  them  ?  "I  would  like  to  wnte  such  a  poem  as 
you  outline,"  he  wrote  an  editor,  "could  I  see  a  clear 
way  to  its  completion.  Like  engagements — old,  old, 
centuries  old — are  slowly  making  me  honest  enough 
with  latter  patrons  to  tell  them  frankly  that  my  sound 
est  promises  won't  hold  shucks.  I  mean  well  but  seem 
helplessly  perverse  in  the  righteous  fulfillment  of  all 
orders.  By  this  you  are  most  justly  to  infer  that  my 
poetry,  however  poor,  is  better  than  my  word.  The 
verse  must  go  therefore  as  I  turn  it  loose — first  come, 
first  served,  with  great  liberal  landscapes  of  allow 
ances." 

In  such  manner  Riley  turned  loose  "June  at  Wood 
ruff,"  "Bereaved,"  and  "Kissing  the  Rod,"  but  the 
poems  were  not  fresh  from  the  mint.  The  latter  was 
ten  years  old — so  long  had  it  to  wait  for  approval. 
"  'Bereaved',"  he  wrote  Newton  Matthews,  "will  make 
you  weep  out  loud."  In  lines  to  Riley,  Matthews 
celebrated  his  friend's  verse  in  true,  lyric  fashion: 


272  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"Few  singers  since  the  world  began, 

My  comrade,  e'er  blew  such  a  tone 
Of  joyance  from  the  Pipes  of  Pan, 

As  your  warm  lips  have  lately  blown; 

No  grief  unknown,  no  old-world  moan, 
Finds  voice  in  you ;  your  songs  are  new 
As  April  lilacs  dashed  with  dew; 
Your  themes  are  common,  but  your  thought 
Gleams  like  a  frightened  firefly  caught 

In  tangles  of  a  trellised  vine, 
Or  like  a  flashing  jewel  brought 

To  light  from  some  deserted  mine." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  POET  AT  FORTY 

A  MAN  of  extreme  moods  and  opinions  was  the 
Hoosier  Poet,  ranging  as  he  wrote  from  the 
height  of  every  rapture  down  to  the  sobs  of  ev 
ery  lost  delight, — not  always,  but  often  enough  to  be 
supremely  interesting  and  sometimes  distinctly  dis 
agreeable—swearing  by  one  thing  one  week  and  repu 
diating  it  the  next: — at  the  summit  of  his  glee,  a  de 
lectable  creature  for  whom  his  friends  could  find  no 
parallel  this  side  of  boyhood ;  and  again,  so  glum  and 
funereal  that  a  hermit  crab  would  be  preferable  com 
pany. 

Life  was  March  weather,  blustering  and  sunny  in 
a  day.  At  times  he  believed  in  the  tyranny  of  cir 
cumstances,  the  "iron  links  of  Destiny."  Free  agency 
was  an  empty  name.  Again,  when  mpre  heavenly 
sentiments  sparkled  in  his  reflections,  he  believed  in 
the  power  of  good  to  resist  all  malevolent  forces — in 
a  word,  the  poet  was  his  own  commander-in-chief. 

His  friend  William  Dean  Howells  once  intimated 
that  a  young  man  is  a  dancing  balloon,  a  bundle  of  ex 
periments  and  irregularities;  in  short,  he  is  a  fool 
till  he  is  forty.  "A  fool  after  forty,"  was  Riley's 
quick  response.  "Did  you  ever  know  a  wise  man  who 
was  not  a  fool?"  The  barrier  between  wisdom  and 
folly  is  about  as  thin  as  that  between  civilization  and 
barbarism. 

273 


274  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Riley  was  of  Montaigne's  opinion,  that  there  is  no 
man  who  has  not  deserved  hanging  five  or  six  times. 

When  Riley  was  thirty-three,  John  Hay  told  him  that 
man  reaches  his  zenith  at  forty.  At  the  same  time 
Hay  admonished  the  poet,  if  he  had  any  great  under 
taking  ahead,  to  begin  it  before  passing  that  milestone. 
Things  begun  after  forty  were  less  likely  to  be 
achieved. 

In  verse  production  Riley  was  passing  his  zenith  at 
the  moment  Hay  was  talking  with  him,  although  both 
were  oblivious  of  the  fact.  When  Afterwhiles  ap 
peared,  critics,  who  knew  nothing  of  Riley's  "Prolific 
Decade,"  said:  "He  is  just  in  his  prime  and  more  and 
better  work  may  be  expected  from  him."  In  fact  he 
was  nearing  the  end  of  his  prime. 

At  forty  he  had  done  his  greatest  work.  Nor  is 
this  to  his  discredit  as  some  older  poets  have  thought. 
Youth  was  the  mainspring  of  all  his  poetic  production. 
"Youth  makes  history,"  he  heard  George  William  Cur 
tis  once  remark.  "Wherever  there  is  genuine,  vic 
torious  work  in  the  poetic  line  to  be  done,  Destiny 
sends  young  poets  with  faith  in  their  hearts  and  fire 
in  their  veins  to  do  it — not  old  ones  with  feathers  in 
their  hats." 

After  his  fortieth  year,  reluctant  as  friends  were  to 
admit  it,  the  moments  were  rare  when  Riley  rose  to 
the  top  of  his  power.  The  flow  of  youth  in  him  was 
diminished.  There  were  no  "great  paroxysms  of  in 
spiration"  as  there  had  been,  and  friends  remarked 
as  they  did  of  Wordsworth  that  he  wrote  beyond  his 
days  of  inspiration.  A  few  years  later  critics  grew 
more  severe  and  attributed  the  lack  of  tuneful  meas 
ures  to  an  overproduction  of  obituary  verse.  "Not  in 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  275 

necrology,"  Myron  Reed  wrote  the  poet,  "not  there, 
not  there,  my  child.  Your  harp  is  tuned  to  'When  The 
Hearse  Comes  Back/  " 

Late  in  the  'nineties  Bliss  Carman  remarked  that 
"Riley  is  about  the  only  man  in  America  who  is  writ 
ing  any  poetry."  Carman  did  not  know — and  his  not 
knowing  did  not  in  the  least  lessen  the  value  of  his 
opinion — he  did  not  know  that  the  poetry  he  praised 
had  been  written  in  the  'eighties,  back  in  the  high  tide 
of  Riley's  genius.  When  Riley  was  forty  he  was  ad 
vised  to  make  a  bonfire  of  accumulated  manuscripts, 
letters  and  papers.  "The  smoke  from  it,"  said  a  friend, 
"would  fill  the  air  with  genii  and  overcast  the  face 
of  the  heavens."  Had  Riley  acted  on  the  advice,  valu 
able  poems  would  have  been  lost  to  posterity — hun 
dreds  of  fragments,  which  grew  into  poems  in  the 
'nineties,  would  have  been  destroyed.  He  preferred  to 
save  everything  and  let  Time  be  the  destroyer. 

His  fortieth  year  marked  distinctly  another  turning- 
point  in  Riley's  life.  For  then  in  response  to  the  suc 
cessful  activities  of  his  publishers  he  began  to  take  a 
lively  interest  in  his  books.  A  year  or  so  before,  he 
had  been  skeptical  about  any  substantial  financial  re 
ward  from  book  publication.  "There  seems  to  be  so 
much  of  the  lottery  principle  in  it,"  he  wrote  a  young 
poet.  "What  I  confidently  think  will  take  well  with 
the  public  does  not  take,  and  what  I  fear  will  not  go, 
goes.  And  so  it  is,  as  I  learn  from  all  available  ex 
periences  of  literary  friends.  At  best  the  monetary 
success  is  unworthy  recompense  for  all  the  trials  and 
anxieties  one  must  endure.  For  fifteen  years  I  have 
been  striving  to  attain  an  audience  for  my  verse,  and 
long  ago  would  have  given  up  in  sheer  despair  but 


276  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

that  I  had  a  more  practical  calling  [income  from  the 
Journal  and  the  platform]  by  which  I  could  put  bread 
in  my  mouth,  and  also  pie.  The  majority  of  mankind 
is  more  in  sympathy  with  dimes  than  rhymes.  A  poet 
must,  therefore,  equip  himself,  someway,  with  means, 
that's  all!  Longfellow  did  it  by  teaching;  Bryant  by 
newspaper  work;  Stoddard,  the  same;  and  so  on  with 
the  whole-kit-and-bilin'  of  the  twittering  brotherhood 
that  'get  there'  as  well  as  versify.  Singing  alone  will 
not  pay  except  in  the  rarest  instances." 

The  dissolution  of  the  partnership  with  Nye  marked 
the  end  of  confusion  in  business  affairs,  due  to  the 
prudent  direction  of  his  brother-in-law,  Henry  Eitel, 
who  henceforth  had  control  of  the  poet's  financial  in 
vestments.  "Had  my  brother-in-law  been  present  five 
years  before,"  said  Riley  in  1890,  "I  would  not  have 
signed  my  death-warrant.  There  was  no  business  in 
firmity,  no  two-penny  nonsense  after  he  took  charge. 
A  poet  in  business  transactions  is  as  defenseless  as 
a  duckling.  I  knew  a  poet  who  once  made  sixty  dollars 
and  then  (being  naturally  and  wholly  impractical) 
dropped  every  nickel  of  it  in  Wall  Street.  My  broth- 
in-law  discouraged  such  ventures." 

The  year  1890  marked  the  beginning  of  financial 
prosperity  for  the  poet,  and  in  the  minds  of  some,  the 
end  of  genius.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  contended  that 
to  the  Goddess,  poverty  is  the  most  alluring  condition ; 
that  she  delights  in  the  wretchedness  of  mean  attics; 
that  when  prosperity  comes  she  bids  the  bard  farewell : 

"Of  old  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 

And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  277 

"Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 

Pinched  and  harassed  with  vain  desires; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 

"For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 

And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad." 

Deny  John  Howard  Payne  pleasures  and  palaces, 
and  lodge  him  in  a  debtor's  prison,  and  he  writes 
"Home,  Sweet  Home/'  possibly  the  best  loved  song  in 
the  English  language. 

The  Goddess  did  sit  with  Riley  at  his  table  and  haunt 
his  bed  in  his  days  of  deprivation,  when  he  wrote  in 
"The  Dead  Rose/'  "The  Crow's  Nest"  and  "The 
Morgue."  In  his  own  words,  he  was  almost  afraid  to 
move  out  of  his  tracks  sometimes  for  fear  of  stepping 
on  another  poem.  "If  I  am  idle  a  day,"  he  wrote  a 
friend,  "unfinished  poems  sob  over  my  neglect.  They 
scamper  like  noisy  children  about  my  empty  brain.  I 
hear  one  calling  now.  It  will  be  absolutely  jealous  I 
believe  should  I  not  succeed  in  materializing  its  per 
turbed  spirit  by  two  o'clock  to-night.  At  this  high 
pressure  I  may  have  to  rise  and  explain  things  as  once 
did— 

"A  shrewd  non-explosive-oil  man 
While  testing  for  friends  of  his  clan, 
Who  explained  from  aloof 
Through  a  hole  in  the  roof, 
That  he'd  stuck  the  match  in  the  wrong  can." 

In  the  'nineties  Riley  wrote  perhaps  a  score  of  popu 
lar  poems,  such  as  "The  Enduring/'  "The  Sermon  of 


278  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  Rose,"  and  "The  Name  of  Old  Glory,"  but  in  none 
of  them  did  his  poetic  genius  reach  the  heights  of 
earlier  days. 

He  was  not  inclined  to  talk  about  the  waning  of  his 
powers,  and  when  he  did,  it  was  to  joke.  "Back  there," 
he  would  say,  recalling  his  prime,  "I  heard  voices. 
Bless  you,  man !  I  have  seen  times  when  stark  and  im 
movable  I  could  block  traffic  in  Washington  Street, — 
dazed  to  the  core  over  a  whippoorwill  calling  across  the 
darkness  and  the  dew,  or  something.  I  never  under 
stood  it,  don't  suppose  I  ever  will.  A  kind  of  catch- 
your-breath  feeling,  you  know, 

"Kind  o'  like  that  sweet-sick  feelin',  in  the  long  sweep 

of  a  swing, 
The  first  you  ever  swung  in,  with  yer  sweetheart,  i 

jing!-— 
Yer  first   picnic — yer  first   ice-cream — yer   first   o' 

ever'thing 
'At  happened  'fore  yer  dancin-days  wuz  over!" 

There  was  some  measure  of  truth,  too,  in  the  state 
ment  made  at  this  time  that  Riley  was  yielding  to 
the  more  conservative,  dignified  forms  of  verse  con 
struction.  In  his  latter  days  he  did  fail  to  maintain 
"the  independence  of  imagination."  "James  Whit- 
comb  Riley  is  a  genuine  genius,"  wrote  Maurice 
Thompson ;  "he  sings  in  his  own  way  his  own  tender, 
amusing,  pathetic  songs  outright  from  the  fountains 
of  nature.  The  moment  that  he  shall  feel  the  extrinsic 
pressure  of  an  artificial  atmosphere  and  turn  to  books 
and  rules  for  models  and  guidance,  the  particular, 
definitive  quality,  which  sets  him  apart  from  the  choir 
of  smooth  and  pretty  singers  by  note,  will  depart  from 
his  verse  forever." 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  279 

It  was  the  artificial  atmosphere  of  his  prosperous 
days  that  drew  from  old-time  friends  the  protestation 
that  "the  modern  Riley  is  a  myth/'  They  thought  his 
love  of  children  a  fiction.  According  to  them  the  child 
the  poet  loved  was  a  memory,  the  child  of  the  Long 
Ago,  the  child  in  the  abstract.  The  poet's  love  of  Nature 
was  explained  in  the  same  way.  He  did  not  stand  en 
tranced  knee-deep  in  clover  fields  as  he  was  supposed 
to  do.  That  too  was  a  memory  of  his  youth,  a  retro 
spect. 

Whether  the  modern  Riley  was  a  myth  does  not  par 
ticularly  concern  these  pages.  That  he  wrote  inspir- 
irigly  of  childhood  and  nature,  no  sympathetic  reader 
of  his  poems  will  deny.  His  books  are  on  the  shelves 
— they  speak  for  him.  Somewhere  in  his  career  he  did 
passionately  love  Nature  and  children.  Sweet  waters 
do  not  flow  from  a  bitter  fountain. 

As  to  the  Riley  quality  in  his  latter-day  productions, 
friends  marked  its  absence  in  such  occasional  poems 
as  the  "Ode  to  Thomas  A.  Hendricks,"  written  "to 
order"  the  summer  of  1890,  for  the  unveiling  of  the 
vice-president's  statue  in  Indianapolis.  According  to 
the  Atlanta  Constitution  it  was  "merely  sound  and 
fury  signifying  nothing."  Riley's  own  criticism  of 
it  was  not  so  harsh,  but  late  in  life  he  admitted  its  fail 
ure  as  he  did  of  other  poems  in  its  class.  "The  trou 
ble  with  poems  for  occasions,"  he  once  observed,  "is 
their  lack  of  heart  and  human  nature.  There  is  not 
sufficient  inspiration  in  the  desire  of  a  memorial  com 
mittee.  When  I  write  a  poem  of  that  kind  I  become  a 
piece  of  intellectual  machinery — a  grinder  at  the  mill ; 
my  heart  is  not  in  my  work." 

Myron  Reed  always  insisted  that  the  great  years  in 


280  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Riley's  development  belonged  to  the  'seventies  and  the 
'eighties.  "The  poet  was  true  to  his  polarity.  His 
magnetic  needle  pointed  in  one  direction.  He  did  not 
always  do  his  best,  but  he  did  things  that  were  excel 
lent  and  commanding,  and  they  were  so  because  he 
wrote  his  poems  in  his  way,  the  new  way." 

While  we  may  deplore  the  absence  of  the  Riley 
quality  in  verse  he  wrote  in  the  'nineties,  we  can  not 
but  be  grateful  for  his  devotion  to  the  task  of  book- 
making,  his  editing — revamping  he  called  it — poems 
to  that  end,  although  his  revision  did  sometimes  dam 
age  the  original  freshness  and  beauty.  "I  am1  going  to 
print  books  steadily  till  dissolution  sets  in  on  Yours 
till  Then,"  he  wrote  a  friend  after  publishing  After- 
whiles.  During  the  summer  of  1890  he  prepared  the 
manuscript  for  Rhymes  of  Childhood.  "Getting  it  to 
gether,"  he  remarked,  "has  been  great  fun,  and  I  am 
one  of  the  happiest  boys  in  it."  The  book  marked  an 
epoch  in  juvenile  literature.  For  a  long  while  its 
author  had 

"Held  that  the  true  age  of  wisdom  is  when 
We  are  boys  and  girls,  and  not  women  and  men ; 
When  as  credulous  children  we  know  things  because 
We  believe  them — however  averse  to  the  laws." 

In  prose  the  child — the  boy  in  particular — had  been 
emancipated  from  the  sugary  atmosphere  of  the  front 
parlor  in  such  books  as  Warner's  Being  a  Boy,  Aid- 
rich's  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  and  Mark  Twain's  Tom 
Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn.  Those  books  had  done 
signal  service  to  the  race  in  choking  off  the  consump 
tive  child-saints  modeled  after  the  so-called  heroes  in 
the  old  English  Sunday-school  books.  What  Twain, 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  281 

Aldrich  and  Warner  had  done  in  prose,  the  Rhymes  of 
Childhood  did  in  verse. 

The  book's  claim  to  fame  lay  in  the  absence  of  lit 
erary  affectation.  Children  were  presented  without 
gloss  or  distortion.  "They  were  real  Simon-pure 
children/'  said  Riley,  "who  would  make  real  men  and 
women."  Their  actions  were  perfectly  natural  and 
hence,  as  Reynolds  the  painter  had  said,  were  graceful. 

It  is  not  Riley's  province,  he  said  in  his  Prefatory 
note  to  the  volume,  to  offer  any  excuse  for  deportment 
of  children.  Their  very  defects  of  speech  and  gesture 
were  at  times  engaging.  No  need  to  "worry  for  their 
futures,  since  the  All-Kind  Mother  has  them  in  her 
keep." 

In  his  paper,  "Dialect  in  Literature,"  read  before  the 
Indianapolis  Literary  Club,  October,  1890,  Riley  de 
fended  the  child  at  greater  length.  "Since  for  ages," 
he  said,  "this  question  seems  to  have  been  left  un 
asked,  it  may  be  timely  now  to  propound  it— Why  not 
the  real  child  in  Literature?  The  real  child  is  good 
enough  (we  all  know  he  is  bad  enough)  to  command 
our  admiring  attention  and  most  lively  interest  in  real 
life,  and  just  as  we  find  him  'in  the  raw/  Then  why 
do  we  deny  him  any  righteous  place  of  recognition  in 
our  Literature?  From  the  immemorial  advent  of  our 
dear  old  Mother  Goose,  Literature  has  been  especially 
catering  to  the  juvenile  needs  and  desires,  and  yet 
steadfastly  overlooking,  all  the  time,  the  very  princi 
ples  upon  which  Nature  herself  founds  and  presents 
this  lawless  little  brood  of  hers — the  children.  It  is 
not  the  children  who  are  out  of  order ;  it  is  Literature. 

"The  elegantly  minded  purveyors  of  Child  Literature 
can  not  possibly  tolerate  the  presence  of  any  but  the 


282  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

refined  children — the  very  proper  children — the  studi 
ously  thoughtful,  poetic  children; — and  these  must  be 
kept  safe  from  the  contaminating  touch  of  our  rough- 
and-tumble  little  fellows  in  'hodden  gray/  with  frow 
zy  heads,  begrimed  but  laughing  faces,  and  such  awful 
awful  vulgarities  of  naturalness,  and  crimes  of  sim 
plicity,  and  brazen  faith  and  trust,  and  love  of  life 
and  everybody  in  it.  All  other  real  people  are  getting 
into  Literature,  why  not  have  real  children  in  it?" 

Reaffirming  his  views  he  wrote  the  editor  of  the 
Ladies'  Home  Journal: 

The  Indianapolis  Journal,  October  23,  1890. 
Edward  Bok,  Esq. 
Dear  Mr.  Bok: 

Answering  your  kindly  inquiry:  Am  just  now 
going  to  press  with  a  Holiday  book,  entitled  Rhymes 
of  Childhood — nearly  a  hundred  poems,  dialect  and 
serious  equally.  In  it  the  enthusiastic  writer  goes 
scampering  barefoot  from  page  to  page,  with  no  more 
sense  of  dignity  than  socks,  and  the  like  wholesome 
rapture  in  heels  and  heart.  I  think  of  what  a  child 
Lincoln  must  have  been,  and  the  same  child-heart  at 
home  within  his  breast  when  death  came  by.  It  is 
all  in  the  line  of  Fact — that's  the  stuff  that  makes 
good  fiction,  romance,  and  poetry.  I  digress  to  say 
this,  but  I  glory  in  the  crime.  Thanking  you  with  all 
heartiness  I  remain  as  ever, 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 

From  the  first  the  book  won  high  favor  with  the 
children,  but  it  was  an  enigma  to  parents.  How  a 
bachelor  could  so  touch  the  heart  of  children  was  a 
mystery.  "I  have  two  'riders  on  the  knee/  "  a  mother 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  283 

wrote  him.  "I  am  sorry  you  had  to  borrow  a  little 
nephew  for  the  frontispiece."  The  poet  told  her  that 
his  children  lived  in  the  Paradise  of  Memory.  He 
talked  rapturously  of  the  gift  of  Eternal  Childhood. 
"When  I  get  that  gift,"  he  said,  "I  will  thrill  you  with 
swarms  of  hitherto  untwittered  poems."  Looking 
backward  (which  was  his  heavenly  way  of  looking 
forward) 

"He  heard  the  voice  of  summer  streams, 

And,  following,  he  found  the  brink 

Of  cooling  springs  with  childish  dreams 

Returning  as  he  kneeled  to  drink." 

The  only  excuse  for  a  new  poet  would  seem  to  be 
that  he  utter  a  new  word,  voice  a  new  phase  of  emo 
tion,  and  this  Riley  did  in  his  Rhymes  of  Childhood. 
Its  reception  was  unparalleled  in  American  poetry. 
"You  should  see  all  the  lovely  letters  from  the  literary 
gods,"  wrote  Riley  to  a  friend.  "They  say  things  that 
make  me  pinch  myself  to  see  if  I  am  dreaming.  I  have 
not  a  dissenting  nor  timid  comment  as  to  the  audacity 
of  part  of  the  book.  First  and  most  exacting  of  the 
literary  high-lights  are  daily  thumping  my  shoulders 
through  the  mail.  Simply  all  is  well,  and  very  well — 
can  not  begin  to  supply  the  demand." 

"The  book,"  wrote  William  Dean  Howells  in  Har 
per's  Magazine,  "takes  itself  quite  out  of  the  category 
of  ordinary  verse,  and  refuses  to  be  judged  by  the 
usual  criterions.  The  fact  is,  our  Hoosier  Poet  has 
found  lodgment  in  the  people's  love,  which  is  a  much 
safer  place  for  any  poet  than  their  admiration.  What 
he  has  said  of  very  common  aspects  of  life  has  en- 


284  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

deared  him  to  the  public.  You  feel,  in  reading  his 
verse,  that  here  is  one  of  the  honestest  souls  that  ever 
uttered  itself  in  that  way." 

"Thanks  a  thousand,  thousand  times,"  wrote  Mark 
Twain,  "for  the  charming  book  which  laments  my  own 
lost  youth  for  me  as  no  words  of  mine  could  do." 

There  came  also  the  usual  fine  word  from 

Washington,  D.  C.,  December,  1890. 
Dear  Mr.  Riley: 

Your  Rhymes  of  Childhood  makes  a  delightful  vol 
ume.  They  come  home  especially  to  the  hearts  of 
those  who  grew  up  as  you  and  I  did  in  small  western 
towns.  I  hardly  know  which  class  of  poems  I  like 
best,  those  in  which  the  children  do  the  talking,  or 
those  in  which  you  speak  in  your  own  proper  person. 
They  are  equally  good,  natural  and  genuine.  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  remembering  me  and  remain, 
Yours  faithfully, 

JOHN  HAY. 

The  summit  of  praise,  in  Riley's  opinion,  was 
reached  in  Kipling's  lines.  A  copy  of  the  Rhymes  had 
been  presented  to  the  British  author  by  George  Hitt, 
who  was  then  residing  in  London.  "To  J.  W.  R." 
Kipling  entitled  them: 

"Your  trail  runs  to  the  westward, 

And  mine  to  my  own  place; 
There  is  water  between  our  lodges, 
And  I  have  not  seen  your  face; 

"But  since  I  have  read  your  verses 

It  is  easy  to  guess  the  rest, 
Because  in  the  hearts  of  the  children 
There  is  neither  East  nor  West. 


THE  POET  AT  FORTY  285 

"Born  to  a  thousand  fortunes 

Of  good  or  evil  hap, 
Once  they  were  kings  together, 
Throned  in  a  mother's  lap. 

"Surely  they  know  that  secret — 

Yellow  and  black  and  white, 
When  they  meet  as  kings  together 
In  innocent  dreams  at  night, 

"With  a  moon  they  all  can  play  with — 

Grubby  and  grimed  and  unshod: 
Very  happy  together, 
And  very  near  to  God. 

"Your  trail  runs  to  the  westward, 

And  mine  to  my  own  place; 
There  is  water  between  our  lodges, 
And  you  can  not  see  my  face. 

"And  that  is  well — for  crying 

Should  neither  be  written  nor  seen, 
But  if  I  call  you  Smoke-in-the-Eyes, 
I  know  you  will  know  what  I  mean." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET 

HOW  old  are  you?    "On  the  sunny  side  of  forty," 
Riley  would  answer,  leaving  the  Paul  Pry  to 
infer  which  side.     The  poet  was  on  the  "west" 
side  of  that  meridian  before  he  reached  his  settled 
place  of  abode — 

"Gracious  anchorage,  at  last, 
From  the  billows  of  the  vast 
Tide  of  life  that  comes  and  goes, 
Whence  and  where  nobody  knows." 

He  had  been  a  Bohemian.  "Bear  in  mind,"  he  would 
write  his  friends,  "the  contingencies  of  my  Nomadic 
existence1 — I  myself  not  knowing  certainly  what  will 
turn  up  next,  or  when,  or  how.  I  have  tacks  in  my 
course,  and  reefs  in  my  sails — my  eye  on  changing 
winds.  About  all  I  know  is  the  direction  I  am  trying 
to  go." 

Immediately  preceding  his  residence  in  Lockerbie 
Street  Riley  had  a  room  at  the  Denison  House.  He 
took  his  meals  wherever  he  might  be  when  hungry, — 
his  old-time  practice  of  living  at  restaurants,  pamper 
ing  his  erratic  appetite  and  entertaining  original  views 
on  diet  as  he  had  done  when  first  employed  on  the  In 
dianapolis  Journal.  "Bread,"  said  one  of  his  associ 
ates,  "he  considered  an  invention  of  the  devil,  and 

286 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET  287 

would  have  none  of  it,  crackers  being  a  substitute. 
While  business  men  had  lunch  the  poet  had  his  break 
fast.  He  was  long  on  oyster  stews,  and  cheese  and 
mince  pies."  Among  a  hundred  other  eccentricities 
was  his  taste  in  tablewear.  Having  lived  in  restau 
rants  all  his  life  he  was  not  used  to  thin  china,  would 
have  only  heavy  wear  such  as  was  safe  in  the  hands  of 
clumsy  waiters.  His  main  meal  was  six  o'clock  dinner, 
with  coffee  and  crackers  at  midnight.  "Let  us  be 
cheerily  contented,"  he  wrote  a  friend  in  1890.  "Right 
here  I  am  going  out  with  a  prowling,  midnight  pie- 
eating  pal,  who  paces  at  my  door  and  will  not  rest  un 
til  I  join  him  in  our  customary,  unholy  feast,  which 
we  always  relish  the  more  for  being  assured  that  we 
positively  should  not  eat  such  things  at  such  hours." 

Living  on  the  wing,  Riley  termed  it,  now  in  a  hotel, 
now  with  his  brother-in-law,  now  with  his  physician, 
and  next  "off  somewhere  lecturing."  "Think  of  it," 
said  he,  "I  never  owned  a  desk  in  my  life  and  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  own  a  library.  Where  do  I  write? 
Everywhere — sometimes  on  the  kitchen  table  in  my 
sister's  house,  then  in  the  parlor  and  again  on  the 
printer's  case — just  where  the  fancy  seizes  me.  Queer 
how  and  where  authors  write.  Andrew  Lang  wrote 
best  in  a  rose  garden — Tolstoi  sat  on  a  bed  and  put 
his  inkstand  on  a  pillow — Dumas  used  an  ebony  desk 
— the  lid  to  Mary  Anderson's  table  was  mother-of- 
pearl.  None  of  your  luxuries  for  the  little  bench-leg 
poet.  Give  him  a  bleak  room,  the  more  uncomfortable 
the  better." 

He  had  been  like  his  friend  Charles  Warren  Stod- 
dard,  disposed  to  "streak  off  to  odd  parts  of  the  world 
with  little  choice  as  to  where,"  the  difference  being 


288  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

that  his  friend  went  to  the  Navigator  Islands  or  some 
other  oceanic  spot,  while  Riley  sallied 

"Out  to  Greenfield  where  the  Muse 
Dips  her  sandal  in  the  dews 
Sacredly  as  night  and  dawn." 

"For  years,"  the  poet  wrote  in  "The  Boy  from 
Zeeny,"  "I  have  been  a  wanderer  from  the  dear  old 
town  of  my  nativity,  but  through  all  my  wanderings 
a  gracious  fate  has  always  kept  me  somewhere  in  its 
pleasant  neighborhood,  and  in  consequence  I  often  pay 
brief  visits  to  the  scenes  of  my  long-vanished  boy 
hood." 

A  day  came  when  Stoddard  turned  his  face  toward 
Indiana.  "Come,  by  all  means!"  Riley  wrote  him  in 
January,  1891.  "Only,  give  us  fair  warning  and  we'll 
arrange  the  best  possible  for  your  entertainment,  and 
our  mutual  strife  in  allaying  your  restlessness.  In 
that  particular  I  may  prove  a  not  all  unworthy  rival 
— for  already  for  years  I  have  worn  the  haircloth  off 
the  most  uncomfortable  surroundings  every  day.  Any 
commodious  accessory  at  any  time  obtruding,  I  find 
another  hotel ;  simply  I  will  not  be  put  upon  by  conve 
niences.  Every  valuable  letter,  book,  picture,  keepsake, 
manuscript  I  ever  had  in  the  world  I've  got  safely 
locked  up  in  some  other  trunk — some  place  else.  But 
it's  safe — Omygodyes!  That's  one  thing  I  like  about 
me, — I'm  so  careful,  and  always  so  well  situated  to 
jump  and  skite  for  a  train  and  ride  off  a-skallyhootin' 
with  my  bow  legs  gracefully  unfurled  from  the  rear 
platform  of  the  last  car! — Which  reminds  me — I'm 
just  now  rehearsing  for  some  big  fat  lecture  dates 
which  I'm  loathf  ully  about  to  tackle — within  ten  days. 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET  289 

But  I'm  not  going  to  be  pressed  or  crowded,  chased  and 
run  like  a  scared  dog  ever  again  on  earth!  and  I  can 
make  more  money  this  way,  too,  I  find,  and  maintain 
a  far  higher  tone,  don't  you  know.  So  from  this  on, 
mind  you,  when  Little  Tommy  Tucker  sings  for  his 
supper,  it  means  also  a  supper  for  his  every  friend, 
as  well — and  it  means  a  supper,  moreover,  at  Delmoni- 
co's!  Ho,  ho!  ho!  says  L.  T.  Tucker!" 

"Sometimes  I  jot  down  a  little  eighty-cent  thought," 
— so  Riley  once  remarked  to  Bill  Nye.  "I  put  it  away 
carefully  somewhere  and  afterwards,  unable  to  find  it, 
it  is  lost.  I  have  never  owned  a  dictionary  or  a  library, 
because  I  have  been  flitting  about  from  room  to  room 
and  can  not  keep  anything." 

"Our  Hoosier  Poet  was  in  an  Indian  Summer  of 
gladness,"  said  Nye,  "when  he  found  the  'eighty-cent 
thought/  and  the  birds  and  the  angels  loved  to  asso 
ciate  with  him.  His  soul  was  all  aglow  with  sunshine, 
but  when,  after  hunting  for  it  two  days  and  the  gloom 
of  the  third  night  settled  down  upon  him,  he  could 
not  find  it,  his  soul  was  aglow  with  a  red  reflection 
from  the  great  coke  works  where  the  worm  dieth  not 
and  the  fire  department  is  an  ignominious  failure." 

The  poet's  anchorage  in  Lockerbie  Street  dates 
from  the  summer  of  1893.  "I  am  getting  tired  of  this 
way  of  living,"  he  remarked  to  friends  down-town  one 
evening — "clean,  dead  tired,  and  fagged  out  and  sick 
of  the  whole  Bohemian  business."  Later,  another  eve 
ning,  he  was  the  guest  of  Major  Charles  L.  Holstein 
at  the  latter's  residence.  Many  years  the  men  had 
been  fast  friends.  The  Major's  family,  including  his 
wife  and  her  father  and  mother,  had  been  especially 
fond  of  Riley's  society,  and  in  the  years  gone  by  the 


290  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

poet  had  accepted  many  invitations  to  dinner.  On  this 
particular  evening,  as  he  was  leaving,  Riley  said  to 
the  Major,  "I  am  never  coming  back  again  except  on 
one  condition."  Rather  startled,  the  Major  asked  the 
condition.  "That  I  come  as  a  boarder,"  returned 
Riley.  The  condition  was  readily  and  gladly  accepted 
and  ever  afterward  the  poet  lived  at  528  Lockerbie 
Street — Lockerbie  Land,  he  called  the  broad,  old- 
fashioned  brick  house  with  its  air  of  quiet  refinement 
and  solid  comfort — never  possessing  the  property  in 
his  own  name,  yet  having  the  joys  and  privileges  of 
home,  receiving  visitors  and  friends  and  delegations 
of  admirers  in  his  old  bachelor  days  with  the  same 
freedom  that  Irving  received  them  at  Sunnyside. 

A  quiet  little  street  of  two  irregular  squares — ran 
a  description  of  it  when  the  poet  first  saw  it,  right 
in  the  heart  of  the  town  with  vine-wreathed  homes  and 
flower  gardens  above  the  sidewalks  in  the  shade  of 
maples  and  sycamores — a  gracious  retreat  for  "a  poet 
who  had  no  home,  no  children  and  no  flowers."  Riley 
wrote  in  his  poem,  "Lockerbie  Street" — 

"There  is  such  a  relief,  from  the  clangor  and  din 
Of  the  heart  of  the  town,  to  go  loitering  in 
Through  the  dim,  narrow  walks,  with  the  sheltering 

shade 

Of  the  trees  waving  over  the  long  promenade, 
And  littering  lightly  the  ways  of  our  feet 
With  the  gold  of  the  sunshine  of  Lockerbie  Street." 

The  birth  of  the  poem — thirteen  years  before  Riley 
came  to  live  in  the  shady  retreat — affords  another  in 
stance  of  his  capricious  way  of  investing  an  incident 
with  mystery,  his  way  of  eluding  facts,  which  was  often 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET    291 

provoking  to  a  sedate  reporter  in  search  of  them.  Dili 
gently  the  poet  sought  to  minimize  the  importance  of 
his  own  performance.  In  a  postscript  to  Ella 
Wheeler,  (July,  1880),  he  artfully  referred  to  the  in 
cident  which  prompted  the  poem.  "Had  a  glance  or 
two  from  a  mysterious  young  lady  who  whizzes  about 
town  with  a  vixenish  mare  and  a  clay-colored  gig.  And 
I  tracked  her  at  last  to  her  hidden  fastness,  and  to 
morrow  I  publish  this  adroit  indication  of  the  fact — 
hoping  her  cunning  eyes  will  fall  upon  it."  (Here 
followed  copy  of  the  poem  complete.)  At  another  time 
Riley  said :  "Chance  first  led  me  into  Lockerbie  Street. 
Chance  has  brought  me  many  gifts.  Chance  has  sig 
nally  contributed  to  my  salvation."  While  out  driv 
ing  with  a  friend  he  came  one  afternoon  to  the  corner 
of  Lockerbie  and  East  Streets.  The  shady  thorough 
fare  seemed  to  invite  him.  At  the  same  moment  the 
mysterious  young  lady  whizzed  past  in  the  clay-colored 
gig.  The  poet  observed  that  she  alighted  in  front  of 
the  old-fashioned  brick  house.  This  incident  was  all 
the  foundation  there  was  for  the  fanciful  postscript 
to  Miss  Wheeler.  "I  caught  the  trick  phrase  while 
out  driving,"  said  Riley,  "and  it  began  at  once  to 
warble  in  my  heart.  A  day  or  so  after  I  revisited  the 
street.  Walking  back  to  the  office,  I  repeated  the 
phrase  with  every  footstep — Lockerbie  Street — 
Lockerbie  Street — Lockerbie  Street.  The  words  clung 
to  me  like  tickseed  to  a  tiger.  That  night  I  wrote  the 
poem  and  next  day  copied  it  from  memory,  on  a  tall 
table  in  the  office  and  sent  it  to  the  editor  in  answer  to 
call  for  'copy/  never  dreaming  of  its  subsequent  suc 
cess."  The  poem  appeared  in  the  Indianapolis  Journal 
the  following  morning.  On  reaching  the  office  that  day 


292  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  poet  found  his  desk  covered  with  flowers,  the  gift 
of  residents  in  Lockerbie  Street,  who  had  read  the 
poem  at  their  breakfast  tables. 

A  half-century  before  Riley  wrote  the  poem,  one 
George  Lockerbie,  a  Scotchman,  had  cleared  a  little 
farm)  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  when  the  baby 
street  was  born  it  was  christened  after  the  farmer. 
Riley  had  not  coined  the  name  as  some,  even  his  near 
friend  Burdette,  had  thought.  "The  poem,"  said  Bur- 
dette,  "had  the  natural,  child-dancing  step  of  heart 
poems,  and  the  name  fitted  in  so  well  with  the  rhythm 
that  I  thought  it  was  merely  one  of  Fancy's  songs, 
with  an  airy  habitation  and  a  dream  name.  Because 
in  those  days  Jamesie  did  not  live  in  Lockerbie  Street, 
and  never  expected  to  pitch  his  tent  on  the  pleasant 
city  lane,  which  did  not  belong  in  town  at  all,  but 
which  loitered  too  long  at  the  edge  of  the  mfeadow, 
and  was  overtaken  and  hemmed  in  by  the  growing 
city,  always  hungry  for  the  pastures  and  the  fringing 
woods  that  lie  without  the  walls." 

Lockerbie  Street  was  a  paradise  to  Burdette  and  he 
was  always  grateful  for  the  loyal  hearts  in  it — and 
that  was  what  Riley  desired  it  to  be,  a  Little  Arcadia, 
so  quiet  and  shady  that  the  sun  could  not  destroy  the 
freshness  of  the  night. 

In  the  years  after  his  "anchorage"  he  had  two  lit 
erary  dens,  such  as  they  were,  one  his  quiet  room  in 
Lockerbie  Street,  the  other  the  "Chimney  Corner" 
with  his  publishers  at  their  old  location  on  Washing 
ton  Street.  Day  after  day  he  vibrated  between  the 
two,  and  when  strangers  became  too  numerous  and 
too  insistent  at  the  latter,  he  sought  the  refuge  of  the 
former,  where  at  times  he  was  all  but  inaccessible. 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET    293 

Frank  G.  Carpenter  found  him  "harder  to  get  at  than 
the  President  of  the  United  States."  Robert  Burns 
Wilson  suspected  him  of  hiding  away  from  the  critics. 
Riley  being  one  of  the  most  potent  literary  forces  then 
at  work  in  America,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  his 
books  would  be  "slashingly  criticized."  "They  are 
jumping  on  you/'  wrote  Wilson.  "Well,  let  them  jump. 
They  can  not  hurt  you,"  the  inference  being  that  Riley 
was  secure  in  the  hearts  of  the  people — and  in  Lock 
erbie  Street. 

Even  his  lovable,  long-suffering  friend,  Bliss  Car 
man,  could  not  detach  him  from  his  quiet  retreat.  "I 
have  been  perfecting  a  long  cherished  plan,"  wrote 
Carman  one  May  day,  "a  plot  it  is  to  capture  you  for 
a  week  this  summer  in  the  mountains.  I  feel  that  if 
I  can  only  get  a  rope  around  you  and  get  you  there  you 
won't  regret  it.  The  place  is  the  Catskills.  Very  quiet 
and  secluded.  Nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  over  the 
hills  by  forest  trails  or  sit  on  the  porch  and  listen  to 
the  birds.  Just  trees  and  hills  and  air  and  view  every 
where.  You  helped  me  over  many  an  hour  in  the 
past  and  I  feel  I  have  more  need  to  see  you  since  good 
old  Richard  Hovey  went  away — detained  by  some  great 
enterprise,  I  guess." 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  room  and  in  the 
Chimney  Corner.  In  June  Carman  wrote  again: 
"Didst  never  receive  a  letter  from  me  written  from 
Washington  in  May?  Or  art  thou  only  a  delinquent 
correspondent?  Anyhow  take  a  pen  and  sit  down 
quickly  and  write  me  for  I  have  need  of  you  in  my 
business.  So  God  love  you  and  remove  from  you  the 
sin  of  procrastination."  Still  Riley  sinned  against  his 
brother  in  that  regard.  The  call  of  the  Catskills  and 


294  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Carman  was  very  great,  but  not  sufficient  to  lure  him 
from  Lockerbie  Street. 

When  he  was  lured  from  home  by  "fat  lecture 
dates,"  there  was  a  tug  at  his  heart-strings  that  Riley 
had  not  felt  since  his  youthful  days  in  the  old  Green 
field  homestead.  The  Holstein  family  circle,  hidden 
away  from  the  "horrific  noise  of  the  railroad,"  was 
remembered  daily.  Mrs.  Holstein  was  the  "Saint  Lock 
erbie"  of  the  circle,  and  Riley  often  so  addressed  her. 
The  Major  also  had  his  by-names,  while  the  family  as 
a  whole  was  "The  Lockerbies."  The  poet  amused  the 
Lockerbies  with  many  quaint  signatures:  "Little  Oak- 
Man,"  the  "Wandering  Jew,"  "LeRoy  Kingen,"  "Jimp- 
sy,"  and  "James  Whipcord  Riley."  Numerous  letters 
passed  to  and  fro,  and  often  the  Little  Oak-Man  sent 
home  a  "wail  of  woe,"  when  "rain  was  in  possession 
of  the  universe,"  or  he  had  to  ride  "thirty  miles  in  a 
freight  caboose" — or  some  other  sorry  something 
made  him  doubly  homesick.  A  few  excerpts  show  the 
tenor  of  the  letters. 

Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks,  Indiana, 

August  2,  1893. 
Dear  Lockerbies: 

As  friends  of  his  in  his  more  prosperous  days,  you 
may  be  interested  to  know  that  old  Jim  Riley  has 
drifted  back  here  and  obtained  employment  at  his  old 
trade.  He  is  now  painting  and  varnishing  at  my  resi 
dence,  and  I  can  say  in  his  behalf — should  you  have 
any  plain  work  of  the  kind  this  fall — Jim's  the  feller 
for  you  to  git.  He  does  good  work  and  don't  ask  no 
fancy  prices.  Give  him  a  call.  Also  cistern-walling, 
shingling,  and  Conveyancing. 

Yours  truly, 

LEROY  KINGEN. 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET  295 

The  simplicity  and  the  modesty  of  Lockerbie  Street 
were  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  display  and  the  show 
he  found  at  points  along  the  way  when  traveling. 
Offensive  egotism  in  one  section  drew  from  him  a 
characteristic  protest.  "Every  one,"  he  wrote  home, 
"says  my  house,  or  my  store,  or  my  hotel,  or  my  bank, 
or  my  mining  interests,  or  my  horses,  or  my  crop, 
or  my  outlook: — My  God!  how  they  do  wear  out  a 
stranger!  Thank  heaven  I  am  turning  towards  my 
home  again.  'Twill  not  be  long — tell  every  lovely 
friend  back  there  in  Indiany.  Tell  the  city  authori 
ties  to  load  up  their  fire  department  hose  with  my 
never-failing  love  and  esteem,  and  splash  it  all  over 
the  blessed  municipality.  When  I  die,  I  expect  to 
wake  right  up  again  in  Indianapolis,  and  though  I  have 
heard  Heaven  very  highly  spoken  of,  I  will  more  than 
likely  remark:  'Well,  boys,  you  hain't  overdrawed  the 
pictur'  ary  particle/  " 

The  poet  seldom  quoted  the  Bible,  but  when  he  did 
it  was  most  effective.  Once,  after  returning  from  a 
great  city,  which,  as  he  thought,  was  running  to  waste 
and  wickedness  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasures  and  riches, 
he  read  from  the  Bible,  drawling  out  the  words  so 
impressively  and  emphatically,  that  his  listener  had  a 
sense  of  shame  for  his  country: 

I  made  me  great  works;  I  builded  me  houses;  I 
planted  me  vineyards;  I  made  me  gardens  and  parks, 
and  I  planted  trees  in  them  of  all  kinds  of  fruit.  I 
bought  men-servants  and  maid-servants,  and  had  ser 
vants  born  in  my  house;  I  had  great  possessions  of 
herds  and  flocks,  above  all  that  were  before  me  in 
Jerusalem;  I  gathered  me  also  silver  and  gold,  and  the 
treasure  of  kings  and  of  the  provinces;  I  gat  m'e  men- 


296  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

singers  and  women-singers,  and  the  delights  of  the 
sons  of  men,  and  musical  instruments,  and  that  of  all 
sorts.  So  I  was  great,  and  increased  more  than  all 
that  were  before  me  in  Jerusalem. 

Then  I  looked  on  all  the  works  that  my  hands  had 
wrought,  and  on  the  labor  that  I  had  labored  to  do; 
and,  behold,  all  was  vanity,  and  a  striving  after  wind. 

He  once  remarked  that  all  this  noise  we  call  com 
mercial  prosperity  is  just  an  endless,  ingenious  strife 
to  separate  a  man  from  his  money.  "What  does  it  all 
mean?"  he  queried  sorrowfully — "this  rumbling  of 
trucks  and  milk  wagons  over  cobblestones — this  jin 
gling  and  jangling  of  telephones — this  moan  of  trol 
leys  and  subways — this  pushing  and  shoving  of 
crowds,  as  if  the  whole  human  family  had  to  be 
jammed  through  the  gangway  in  an  hour.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  the  madness  leads  to  the  sanitarium  and 
the  grave?" 

Thus  was  he  usually  miserable  in  a  great  metrop 
olis.  In  a  state  of  confusion  he  once  wrote  from  New 
York  City: 

Westminster  Hotel,  February,  1894. 
Dear  Saint  and  Charles  Lockerbie : 

Will  you  share  this  hasty  letter?  How  I  am  panted 
out  with  travel  and  starvation,  and  here  of  course  the 
panic  is  in  full  possession  of  me.  Everybody  wants 
me  to  go  everywhere  and  I  don't  know  where  to  turn 
or  what  to  try  to  do — for  I  know  it  won't  work — not 
for  me.  In  consequence  people  are  getting  mad  at 
me  in  regiments.  I  try  to  stay  in  and,  thank  God, 
mainly  succeed.  Reached  here  about  twelve  last 
night,  and  was  kept  up  till  three  with  accumulated 
worries  and  messages.  After  breakfast  went  to  the 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET  297 

Century — did  not  a  thing  but  stand  on  one  foot,  and 
then  on  its  poor  contemporary,  which  wanted  its  new 
shoe  off  and  frozen  toes  tucked  up  in  its  blissful  bed 
gown.  Again  faced  the  razor-bladed  weather  back 
around  Union  Square  where  Conkling  lost  his  life — 
and  again  attained  my  room.  But  not  to  sleep — ohh, 
nohhh!  Table  piled  full  of  mail  that  simply  snows 
here  from  all  sorts  of  charity  endeavors,  and  people 
who  want  to  keep  the  wolf  from  their  particular  doors 
with  frank  ingenuous  contributions  from  millionaire 
poets  like  myself,  of  whose  verses  they  are  so  passion 
ately  fond.  And  books,  books,  my  dwn  books, — table 
wobblin'  with  'em — waitin'  for  my  very  latest,  freshest 
autographs.  With  all  this  I  pleasantly  beguile  me 
leisure  hours. 

"God  bless  you/'  he  wrote  from  Syracuse,  "count  all 
the  good  things  you  have,  and  see  how  very  small  in 
deed  is  the  ratio  of  the  bad.  I  am  trying  to  write  here 
cheerily  in  a  room  as  cold  as  charity,  and  on  the  bot 
tom  of  the  reversed  drawer  of  the  dresser,  and  with  a 
little  cambric  pen  about  the  size  of  a  Brownie's  nut- 
pick.  The  Fates  are  after  me  again  in  this  wintry  cli 
mate.  Since  yesterday  morning,  as  God  hears  me,  I 
have  not  been  warm.  And  yet  I  have  been  a  favored 
guest  in  the  home  of  wealth — have  waded  through  piles 
of  Persian  rugs  and  carpets  of  fabulous  Oriental 
looms;  and  at  groaning  mahogany  boards  have  been 
proffered  wines  of  every  clime — but  no  coffee,  hot  and 
steaming,  the  only  thing  I  can  drink.  Why  should  I 
suffer  myself  to  be  wrenched  away  from  my  hotel  and 
made  a  favored  guest?  Echo  answers  Why." 

Traveling  between  lecture  points  he  wrote  the  fol 
lowing  (after  Longfellow's  translation  of  "La  Chau- 
deau") : 


298  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"At  La  Ker-bie,  nor  mirth  nor  wit 
Ever  grows  old,   (surmising  it), — 
The  youth  of  a  story  is  never  gone, 
And  a  joke  lasts  on  and  on  and  on — 
Till  Matthew  Arnold  would  thrill  with  glee, 
At  La  Ker-bie! 

"At  La  Ker-bie,  0  friends  of  mine, 
Live,  laugh,  revel  and  read  and  dine; 
And  sometimes,  by  the  evening  grate, 
Think  of  the  Little  Man  out  so  late 
With  no  home-path,  nor  no  night-key, 
For  La  Ker-bie! 

"Yet,  La  Ker-bie— ah,  La  Ker-bie!— 
As  I  for  you,  so  yearn  for  me: 
Look,  through  smiles,  for  the  by-and-by — - 
Christmas  is  coming,  and  so  am  I! 
Yours  forever,  and  utterly, 

At  La  Ker-bie !  JAMESIE." 

Near  the  sundown  of  the  poet's  afternoon  there 
came  days  when  all  roads  led  to  Lockerbie  Street.  His 
habit  at  heart  of  looking  on  the  best  side  of  things, 
however  outwardly  he  might  complain,  had  indeed  (in 
Sam  Johnson  phrase)  been  worth  more  than  a  thou 
sand  pounds  a  year.  There  were  infinite  values  in 
Lockerbie  Street,  which  gold  could  not  measure — 
heartfelt  felicitations;  midnight  serenades  at  his  study 
window ;  days  when  his  native  Indiana  paid  tribute  to 
his  art;  legions  of  school  children  smiling  and  singing 
through  the  street;  voluminous  quantities  of  mail; 
greetings  from  far  and  wide  flowing  in  upon  him; 
letters,  telegrams  and  cable  messages — and  last  but 
not  least  the  voice  of  the  loyal  Bliss  Carman  with  a 
love  tribute  in  song — 


ANCHORAGE  IN  LOCKERBIE  STREET    299 

"Lockerbie  Street  is  a  little  street, 

Just  one  block  long; 
But  the  days  go  there  with  a  magical  air, 

The  whole  year  long. 
The  sun  in  his  journey  across  the  sky 
Slows  his  car  as  he  passes  by; 
The  sighing  wind  and  the  grieving  rain 
Change  their  tune  and  cease  to  complain ; 
And  the  birds  have  a  wonderful  call  that  seems, 
Like  a  street-cry  out  of  the  land  of  dreams; 
For  there  the  real  and  the  make-believe  meet. 
Time  does  not  hurry  in  Lockerbie  Street. 

"Lockerbie  Street  is  a  little  street, 

Only  one  block  long ; 
A  little  apart,  yet  near  the  heart, 

Of  the  city's  throng. 
If  you  are  a  stranger,  looking  to  find 
Respite  and  cheer  for  soul  and  mind, 
And  have  lost  your  way,  and  would  inquire 
For  a  street  that  will  lead  you  to  Heart's  Desire, — 
To  a  place  where  the  spirit  is  never  old, 
And  gladness  and  love  are  worth  more  than  gold, — 
Ask  the  first  boy  or  girl  that  you  meet ! 
Every  one  knows  where  is  Lockerbie  Street" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 

A  YOUNG  man  with  a  poetic  ambition  once  came 
to  Riley  for  literary  advice.  There  was  a  dearth 
of  poetic  material  in  the  young  man's  environ 
ment — "nothing  but  inertia  and  stagnation."  He 
longed  to  go  to  Princeton  or  Harvard  that  he  might 
have  the  impulse  of  great  libraries  and  the  atmosphere 
of  culture.  "My  dear  young  fellow,"  replied  Riley, 
"God  should  send  you  a  vision.  Lift  up  your  eyes  and 
look  on  the  fields  white  already  to  harvest.  Ex 
cellence  is  right  here  at  home  where  we  are  falling 
over  it  and  barking  our  shins  against  it  every  day. 
Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art." 

Riley  went  on  to  say  that  the  child  of  genius  was 
often  born  under  a  roof  of  straw — born  where  God 
intends — and  that  he  is  just  as  likely  to  find  the  ma 
terial  for  his  art  in  that  vicinity  as  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  college.  He  deplored  a  man's  disloyalty 
to  the  region  of  his  nativity.  If  a  man  was  born  and 
reared  on  the  banks  of  Deer  Creek,  there  was  a  rea 
son  for  it — a  heavenly  reason;  he  had  the  same  right 
to  be  there  that  Mount  Washington  has  to  be  in  New 
England.  "Drop  a  seal  in  the  sea  somewhere  about 
the  Tropic  of  Cancer,"  said  Riley,  "and  the  homing 
faculty  will  lead  it  back  to  its  breeding  rock  on  the 
Arctic  Circle.  By  instinct  it  knows  its  native  island, 
and  that  it  belongs  there." 

300 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  301 

Loyalty  to  one's  home  region  was  forcibly  impressed 
upon  the  poet  on  the  occasion  of  his  only  visit  to  Eng 
land  in  the  summer  of  1891.  "My  first  trip  abroad," 
said  he,  "taught  me  that  the  United  States  is  a  fine 
country  in  which  to  live.  I  saw  a  great  many  Ameri 
cans  in  London,  who,  ashamed  of  their  country, 
mingled  with  the  British  and  attempted  to  disguise 
their  nationality.  Many  of  them  succeeded,  much  to 
the  gratification  of  all  true  Americans.  I  was  told  on 
my  return  that  I  had  criticized  my  native  land.  I 
had  not.  If  all  Americans  liked  me  half  as  well  as  I 
like  them  I  would  be  indeed  a  proud  and  grateful 
man." 

"You  have  observed,"  he  remarked  on  another  occa 
sion,  "that  man  uniformly  sighs  for  the  land  of  his 
birth.  That  is  a  hint  from  his  Creator  that  he  should 
not  disown  his  native  heath.  A  man  reared  in  a 
prairie  country  may  go  to  live  in  a  hilly  section,  but 
there  comes  a  day,  if  his  heart  expands  as  it  should, 
when  he  longs  to  see  the  prairies  again.  He  saw  no 
poetry  in  them  when  he  lived  there,  but  he  finds  it  on 
his  return.  The  scales  have  fallen  from  his  eyes. 
Myron  Reed  heard  a  shipload  singing  in  the  rain  on 
the  upper  deck  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  as  they 
approached  the  Clyde.  And  what  were  they  singing? 
Ye  Banks  and  Braes  of  Bonnie  Doon." 

Poets,  Riley  was  told,  are  birds  of  passage,  who 
range  abroad  for  material,  who  bring  home  from 
other  climes  the  seeds  that  germinate  in  song;  "but 
they  seldom  find  nutritious  food  in  foreign  lands,"  he 
replied.  "None  of  them  ever  brings  home  flowers 
half  so  sweet  as  those  they  find  in  their  own  neigh 
borhood."  In  this  connection  he  had  ever  at  hand  a 


302  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

favorite  Longfellow  sentiment.  "All  praise,"  he  would 
repeat,  changing  the  tense  of  the  lines, 

"Be  to  the  bards  of  simple  ways, 
Who  walk  with  Nature  hand  in  hand, 
Whose  country  is  their  Holy  Land, 
Whose  singing  robes  are  homespun  brown 
From  looms  of  their  native  town — 
Which  they  are  not  ashamed  to  wear" 

His  favorite  British  painters,  Riley  observed  at  an 
other  time,  had  not  imitated  the  old  masters.  They 
had  sought  the  materials  for  their  pictures  in  the  liv 
ing  world  around  them.  They  had  gathered  in  the 
fruit,  pressed  the  grapes,  and  poured  out  the  wine  for 
themselves.  They  had  painted  life  as  they  saw  it  in 
the  heart  of  England,  not  in  Herculaneum  or  some 
other  sepulcher.  "The  same  power  that  made  Vesu 
vius,"  said  Riley,  "made  the  brook  in  which  you 
splashed  when  you  came  from  school,  and  the  brook 
holds  a  story  as  sweet  and  full  of  interest  as  the  tale 
of  the  volcano." 

What  made  Riley's  advice  to  young  poets  so  season 
able  was  the  fact  that  he  himself  had  not  been  dis 
obedient  to  his  own  teaching.  The  world  had  been  to 
him  a  whispering  gallery.  He  had  nourished  his 
heart  by  imbibing  from  the  great  fountain  of  infor 
mation  around  him.  Daily  he  had  seen  the  miracle 
of  trees  and  flowers  from  his  own  doorway.  "Town 
and  country,"  said  he,  "seemed  a  great  Wonder  Book 
whose  leaves  had  never  been  turned."  Nature  beck 
oned  him  to  her  companionship : 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  303 

"Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"Into  regions  yet  untrod; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

At  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career  Riley  had 
wholesome  encouragement  on  this  line  from  Myron 
Reed.  "My  advice  to  a  young  poet,"  said  Reed,  "is  to 
remain  in  America,  the  most  poetic  country  on  the 
globe.  Here  we  have  youth ;  here  the  lilacs  bloom  and 
the  plovers  fly  as  they  do  in  Europe.  This  is  a  new 
world  given  to  us  for  new  things.  There  is  something 
wrong  when  the  American  poet,  for  lack  of  material, 
goes  back  and  makes  another  translation  of  Virgil." 

Reed  had  been  encouraging,  but  there  had  been  days 
when  the  mere  mention  of  the  poet's  homely  material 
provoked  ridicule.  Riley  sometimes  grew  eloquent 
about  the  poetry  of  the  Wabash  country,  meaning 
thereby  his  own  Indiana.  "What  Riley  needs,"  said 
a  distinguished  jurist,  "is  a  physician  to  pass  on  his 
intelligence."  It  was  absurd  to  think  of  finding  poetry 
in  backyards  and  backwoods. 

"What  is  that  sound  I  hear,"  Riley  asked  a  group 
of  Harvard  students  one  snowy  day  in  Boston.  "Men 
shoveling  snow  from  the  sidewalk,"  was  the  answer. 
"So  it  is,"  Riley  assented;  "and  do  you  know  there  is 
melody  in  it — poetry  in  that  sound?  There  are  sub 
jects  for  poems  all  about  us.  If  you  look  you  can  see 
them  in  the  fields  as  you  ride  along  the  road;  meet 
them  on  the  train — types,  traits,  customs,  scenery. 
What  the  poet  needs  is  discernment."  The  students 
listened  with  misgivings.  They  had  thought  of  poetry 
as  something  that  graced  only  the  high  places. 


304  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"Your  own  Emerson,"  Riley  went  on  to  say  to  the 
Harvard  boys,  "enchants  us  by  idealizing  our  common 
lives  and  fortunes.  When  he  passes,  the  drowsy  world 
is  turned  to  flame.  He  tells  of  riding  in  a  Concord 
coach  through  the  North  End  of  Boston.  There,  he 
observed,  the  men  and  women  of  the  humbler  classes 
were  unrestrained  in  their  manners  and  their  atti 
tudes.  They  were  much  more  interesting  than  the 
clean-shaven,  silk-robed  procession  in  Tremont  Street." 

"Forget  not  the  simple  things,"  Joel  Chandler  Har 
ris  once  admonished  Riley;  "the  rotation  of  the  earth 
that  takes  the  mountain  into  the  sunshine  carries  the 
molehill  along  with  it."  To  each  man  it  was  clear  that 
nothing  is  high  because  it  is  in  a  high  place,  nothing 
low  because  it  is  in  a  low  place.  Alike,  the  two  friends 
read  the  lesson  in  the  bright  track  of  the  stars  and 
in  the  dusty  course  of  the  poorest  thing  that  drags  its 
length  upon  the  ground.  As  Riley  saw  it  there  was 
nothing  trivial  in  God's  sight.  In  the  chain  of  man's 
existence  who  knows  which  links  are  large  and  which 
are  small,  which  important  and  which  trifling?  Great 
men,  Reed  often  reminded  him,  do  not  despise  any 
thing.  It  was  all  a  delusion  that  big  things  were  di 
vorced  from  little  things.  Newton  buckled  his  shoe 
with  the  same  wit  with  which  he  weighed  the  moon. 
"We  condemn  our  fellow  citizens,  we  cast  common 
lives  and  common  things  as  rubbish  to  the  void,"  said 
Riley.  "The  Creator  is  more  merciful.  As  the  poet 
sang  it,  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet, 


'Not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain, 
Not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire.' 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  305 

It  is  our  littleness  that  makes  the  lives  of  others  triv 
ial  and  their  actions  cheap.  God  is  in  His  holy  moun 
tain.  He  will  save  that  which  is  lame  and  gather  that 
which  was  driven  away." 

For  similar  reasons  Riley  held  that  there  is  nothing 
trivial  in  biography,  "unless  it  is  the  life  of  some  char 
acter  too  pure  and  luminous  to  cast  a  shadow,"  he 
said,  "one  of  those  idols  biographers  sometimes  hide 
in  clouds  of  incense.  Could  a  man  write  down  in  a 
simple  style  what  really  happens  to  him  in  this  life, 
he  would  be  sure  to  make  a  good  book,  though  he  had 
never  met  with  a  single  big  adventure." 

A  favorite  tenet — one  that  many  of  Riley' s  friends 
disavowed,  Myron  Reed  among  them — was  this,  that 
at  heart  the  rich  and  eminent  do  not  think  the  lives 
of  the  humble  unimportant.  Riley  often  said  with 
Mr.  Dooley  that,  barring  the  fact  of  education  and  oc 
cupation,  king,  czar,  potentate,  rich  man,  poor  man, 
beggarman  and  congressman  had  all  been  poured  out 
of  the  same  peck  measure.  The  poor  were  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  distinction  forgets  the  rounds  on  the 
ladder  by  which  it  ascends.  Carnegie  was  once  a  bob 
bin  boy  in  a  cotton  mill.  Though  enormously  rich  he 
must,  by  virtue  of  his  being  a  member  of  the  human 
family,  be  always  interested  in  stories  or  songs  about 
other  bobbin  boys.  His  heart  was  on  the  left  side.  Let 
a  poet  write  a  song,  a  truthful  one,  about  those  in 
habitants  in  the  north  end  of  Boston  and  the  clean 
shaven,  silk-robed  procession  in  Tremont  Street  would 
buy  it. 

"The  humble  and  poor  become  great, 
And  from  brown-handed  children 
Grow  mighty  rulers  of  state" — 


306  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

authors,  artists,  inventors  and  scholars,  the  wealthy 
and  the  wise,  rising  as  always  from  the  rank  and  file 
of  to-day  to  walk  in  the  silk-robed  procession  of  to 
morrow.  The  true  man  does  not  blush  for  humble 
beginnings;  hence  his  interest  in  the  literature  that 
feeds  the  spiritual  life  of  the  plain  people. 

It  was  his  sense  of  values  in  common  things  that 
aroused  Riley  to  the  defense  of  dialect.  "The  men 
and  women  who  speak  dialect,"  wrote  a  savage  critic, 
"are  not  worth  portraying  in  literature.  It  is  pre 
posterous  in  writers  to  think  they  can  get  close  to 
nature  by  depicting  the  sterile  lives  and  limited  emo 
tions  of  proletarians  who  speak  only  to  tangle  their 
tongues  and  move  only  to  fall  over  their  feet." 

"The  people  who  speak  dialect,"  returned  Riley, 
"are  as  capable  of  heroism  as  college  men  or  ladies  of 
fashion.  Their  lives  are  not  sterile.  Their  emotions 
are  not  limited.  Love  of  nature,  sympathy  for  the 
suffering,  and  the  capacity  for  aif ection  are  not  limited 
to  grammarians.  Men  and  women  who  speak  ele 
gantly  are  not  the  only  ones  made  in  the  image  of 
God." 

There  were  times  when  the  sting  of  the  literary 
hornets — "the  old-fashioned,  brocaded,  base-burning 
critics,"  as  Nye  called  them — was  more  than  Riley 
could  stand.  At  such  times  the  newspaper  office  was 
his  refuge.  The  reporters  did  not  "blow  him  up."  "I 
am  writing  this  poetry,  this  folk  lore,"  he  said  to  one 
of  the  boys,  "because  of  the  feeling  I  have  that  the 
poets  are  not  writing  songs  for  the  plain  people.  They 
are  writing  for  the  classically  educated.  I  do  not 
understand  them  and  I  know  there  are  many  others 
who  do  not  understand  them.  I  feel  that  there  are 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  307 

just  as  lovely  things  to  write  about  now,  and  just  as 
lovely  things  to  paint  as  there  were  ages  ago — if  any 
thing,  better,  for  God  is  still  in  His  world,  and  it  is 
fair  to  presume  that  He  has  improved  a  great  many 
things.  I  do  not  blame  the  people  of  my  native  town 
for  their  bad  humor  when  foreign  correspondents 
come  to  talk  about  the  monotony  of  small  stores, 
uninteresting  streets,  country  wagons,  traders,  loun 
gers,  and  then  return  to  Chicago  or  the  East  to  say  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  town  inviting  to  poetic  genius. 
It  is  the  want  of  poetry  in  their  own  heart,  their  own 
fault,  that  they  did  not  see  the  draperies  of  cloud  and 
shadow  and  color  the  Creator  hangs  over  Greenfield 
every  day.  Wherever  there  is  a  street,  a  wood,  or 
a  brook  with  a  child  at  play  in  it,  there  is  a  poem,  and 
when  a  man  approaches  it  with  the  right  spirit,  he 
will  find  it,  no  matter  how  rough  the  exterior.  Every 
Hoosier  bush  is  afire  with  God,  but  only  he  who  sees 
takes  off  his  shoes." 

Riley  was  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  every  one 
loves  poetry,  but  the  people,  he  thought,  are  quick  to 
disclaim  any  such  liking  when  charged  with  it.  In 
his  best  moments  every  man  acknowledges  a  sense 
of  the  beautiful.  If  we  talk  to  him  in  foreign  vocab 
ularies,  in  an  affected  style,  and  in  figures  and  phrases 
drawn  from  libraries,  we  are  talking  about  things 
he  does  not  understand.  "So  I  talk  of  the  things  of 
to-day,"  Riley  said: 

"The  Golden  Age!   Oh,  turn  the  page 

Of  history!    I  'low 
We  have  as  good  a  Golden  Age — 
The  Golden  Age  of  Now!" 


308  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Naturally  Riley  talked  of  poetry  when  he  visited 
Longfellow.  "The  world,"  said  Longfellow,  "your 
great  world  there  in  the  West,  is  teeming  with  beauti 
ful  themes.  Your  poets  will  never  exhaust  them." 
"I  understood  then,"  said  Riley  afterward,  "as  I  had 
vaguely  surmised  before,  that  Longfellow  always  saw 
the  poetic  in  the  thing  that  was  nearest  to  him.  He 
made  constant  use  of  it.  Passing  that  through  the 
workshop  of  his  wonderful  imagination,  he  had 
blessed  the  world  with  immortal  poems." 

With  the  publication  of  his  first  volumes  Riley  began 
to  think  more  seriously  of  his  place  in  American 
literature,  encouraged,  no  doubt,  by  an  editorial  in  the 
Chicago  Herald.  At  this  writing  when  the  East  no 
longer  holds  the  artistic  West  in  contempt,  the  passion 
of  the  Herald  provokes  a  smile,  but  it  was  not  a 
smiling  matter  a  quarter-century  ago.  "The  cultured 
circles  of  the  world,"  said  the  Herald,  "should  cease 
to  affect  surprise  when  something  good  in  literature 
comes  out  of  the  West.  Why  should  one  be  surprised 
that  the  birthplace  of  a  poet  is  in  a  country  town? 
What  clime  is  alone  congenial  to  the  birth  and  foster 
ing  of  genius?  What  locality  can  be  recommended 
as  sure  to  produce  phenomena  in  literature?  What 
land  has  produced  great  men  only,  and  what  winds 
have  fanned  the  brows  of  great  women  only?  It  is 
proper  to  note  that  genius  scorns  birth  and  condition, 
and  flames  up  in  utter  disregard  of  the  canons  of  cul 
ture.  The  men  who  have  given  the  world  its  enter 
tainment  have  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  and 
have  been  citizens  in  the  republic  of  mind,  not  because 
they  saw  the  same  landscape  and  ate  the  same  dishes 
as  their  judges,  but  because  there  was  in  them  that 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  309 

which  bid  defiance  to  geography  and  convention  and 
brought  from  obscurity  the  credentials  to  fame. 
James  Whitcomb  Riley  emerged  from  a  past  too  ob 
scure  to  be  interesting  to  eastern  writers,  and  yet  a 
few  touches  of  his  lance  have  gained  him  a  place  on 
the  pavilion  of  letters.  The  people  have  accepted  him. 
He  speaks  to  the  world  in  tuneful  measures  and  the 
world  is  glad  to  listen. 

"Genius  is  genius,"  the  Herald  concluded,  "no  mat 
ter  where  it  is  born,  no  matter  where  it  is  bred.  It 
comes  to  fruition  without  regard  to  teaching  and  sets 
new  standards  everywhere.  It  is  time  to  serve  notice 
that  genius  never  seeks  a  congenial  clime  and  that  it 
does  not  wait  to  have  its  copy  set,  but  makes  the 
model  the  world  approves.  It  is  time  to  say  that  it 
may  be  looked  for  in  the  West  as  in  the  East,  in  the 
country  as  in  the  town — time  to  say  that  he  who  be 
trays  surprise  at  the  locality  of  its  fame,  advertises 
his  own  ignorance,  prejudice,  and  sophistry." 

Although  "tuneful  measures"  had  gushed  from  his 
heart,  there  was  always  for  Riley  the  sad  memory  of 
days  when  the  world  had  not  listened  to  him,  days  of 
doubt,  pathetic  days. 

Late  in  life  he  related  to  his  secretary  the  story  of 
a  little  Scotch  play  in  which  in  one  scene  villagers 
placed  wreaths  and  garlands  on  a  monument  to  the 
village  poet,  who  had  not  been  appreciated  while 
among  them,  and  had  wandered  away  to  die.  Over 
and  over  Riley  pictured  to  himself  such  a  fate;  night 
after  night  he  had  wondered  whether  the  public  would 
appreciate  his  song.  In  this  connection  he  related  J. 
G.  Holland's  wonderful  story  of  "Jacob  Kurd's  Child," 
— one  of  the  first  poems  he  ever  read — a  child  born  in 


310  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

witchcraft  times.  The  baby  was  filled  with  a  curious, 
intangible  spirit  that  wove  for  it  a  little  world  of  its 
own,  where  it  lived  and  dreamed  and  talked  with 
strange,  wonderful  people,  and  knew  strange,  wonder 
ful  things.  Coming  home  from  a  day  in  the  meadows 
with  its  cheeks  flushed  and  its  eyes  big  with  miracles 
it  had  seen  and  heard,  it  would  tell  its  father  and 
mother  what  had  happened  to  it  alone  among  the 
flowers.  The  Puritan  father  and  mother  were  horri 
fied.  The  child's  vision  was  an  illusion.  It  had  seen 
nothing  and  heard  nothing.  Soon  it  was  whispered 
about  that  the  child  was  a  witch.  In  the  end  the  child 
died  of  a  fever,  and  the  parents  never  knew  what  they 
had  possessed  and  what  they  had  lost. 

"Well,"  said  Riley,  "in  the  days  when  my  future 
was  misty  I  was  that  child.  In  my  own  weak  way  I 
had  the  gift  of  prophecy.  I  was  not  made  like  others." 
His  thoughts  were  weird  and  wild.  He  told  marvel 
ous  stories.  The  saddle  and  bridle  on  the  horse  he 
rode  blazed  with  jewels.  He  garnered  a  curious  wis 
dom — 

"And  many  were  the  times 
When  he  sat  in  the  sun  the  livelong  day 
And  sang  to  himself  in  rhymes." 

Would  the  people  love  his  rhymes  as  he  had  loved 
them,  or  would  they  disregard  them,  think  them  too 
common  and  ordinary  for  applause?  Would  the 
public  smite  him  as  the  Puritan  father  in  an  evil 
moment  had  smitten  his  child?  Was  there  a  reward 
for  faith  in  visions  and  loyalty  to  purpose,  or  was  his 
fate  to  be  disastrous?  He  did  not  know.  The  tor- 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  311 

tures  of  the  wheel  and  the  rack!    What  were  they 
compared  to  mental  agonies  over  such  uncertainties. 

In  1893  there  came  a  letter  from  Rudyard  Kipling 
that  would  have  been  a  glorious  windfall  in  Riley's 
days  of  doubt  and  gloom.  "I  remember  it,"  said 
Riley,  some  years  after  receiving  it ;  "and  I  remember 
my  reflections.  I  had  been  praised  by  one  of  the  most 
exacting  men  in  literature.  He  called  a  spade  a  spade. 
Another  thing  I  remember.  There  was  Kipling, 
twenty-seven  years  old,  the  author  of  eleven  volumes, 
while  I,  going  on  forty-five,  was  crowing  over  my 
little  family  of  seven.  Still  another  thing  to  his 
credit.  He  had  been  brave  enough  to  marry,  and 
best  of  all  had  had  the  courage  to  come  to  America 
for  his  bride.  Your  little  bench-leg  singer,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  still  moaning  under  his  old  sign  at 
Lone  Tree.  Everybody  was  praying  and  plotting  for 
him,  heart  and  soul,  like  Congress  on  a  pension  bill, 
but  failing  miserably  to  find  the  cardinal  device  in  the 
ceremony — a  woman  who  would  like  to  have  a  poet 
for  a  husband." 

Riley  had  sent  a  set  of  his  books  to  Kipling,  who 
wrote  from  Vermont:  "Your  Seven  Brothers  came 
sooner  than  I  thought.  It  is  not  for  me  to  criticize 
the  merits  of  the  same,  but  1  wish  to  remark  and  my 
language  is  plain*  that  I  am  very  sick  of  digging  up 
radishes  every  twenty  minutes  to  see  how  their  poor 
little  roots  are  getting  on;  and  sweating  and  swear 
ing  and  clucking  in  print  over  the  nature  and  proper 
ties  and  possibilities  of  the  American  literature  that 
is  to  be.  Therefore,  when  I  find  a  man  sitting  down 
and  singing  what  his  life  is  round  him  and  his  neigh 
bors'  lives,  as  a  poet  sees  them  with  their  ideas  and 


312  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

their  hopes  and  their  fears  all  properly  set  out  and 
plotted  and  calculated  for  his  particular  section  of  the 
country,  I  rejoice  with  a  great  joy  because  half  a 
dozen  poems  of  that  kind  are  worth  as  near  as  I  can 
make  it  out  four  and  three-quarters  tons  of  the  pre 
cious,  self-conscious,  get-on-to-my-curves  stuff  that  is 
solemnly  put  forward  as  the  great  American  exhibit. 
What  you  write  incidentally  of  the  Hoosier  holds  good 
for  country  life  over  a  large  area.  That  is  why  my 
farmer  next  door  approves  of  The  Frost  on  the 
Punkin,'  and  why  I  hug  myself  over  'Coon-Dog  Wess.' 
Also  why  I  choke  over  'Mahala  Ashcraft' — and  be 
cause  I  don't  know  why  I  choke  I  am  moderately  sure 
that  there  is  a  poet  at  the  keyboard.  Go  on,  in  Allah's 
name,  go  on!" 

Years  later  Henry  Van  Dyke  came  West  to  address 
the  Indiana  Teachers'  Association.  It  seemed  to  Riley 
that  his  friend  had  come  out  of  the  Orient  to  say  a 
final  word  on  the  subject.  "It  is  a  great  thing,"  said 
Van  Dyke  in  part  to  the  Association,  "for  one  who 
lives  away  off  on  the  eastern  coast  to  come  to  this 
Middle  West,  where  it  is  easier  to  find  that  which  is 
so  much  talked  about — the  true  American  spirit.  This 
is  the  section  where  that  spirit  is — I  will  not  say  ram 
pant — but  where  it  is  triumphant  and  still  on  top.  I 
do  not  suppose  there  is  any  place  in  the  United  States 
to-day  where  people  are  more  thoroughly  alive  and  in 
earnest  in  regard  to  the  burning  problem  of  our  land 
than  they  are  here. 

"And  what  is  that  problem  and  question?  It  is 
whether  a  government  of  the  people  and  by  the  people 
and  for  the  people  shall  really  endure  upon  the  earth. 
And  the  answer  to  that  question — now  don't  think  it 


POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME  313 

strange — depends  upon  whether  poetry  and  that  for 
which  poetry  stands,  is  going  to  survive  in  the  hearts 
of  the  American  people.  I  believe  it  will  survive. 
More  and  more  the  people  will  care  for  poetry.  The 
peasant  in  his  cottage  has  his  ballad;  the  fisherman 
upon  the  Arctic  Sea  has  his  chant ;  the  philosopher  has 
his  treasury  of  song  that  lies  close  to  his  heart.  There 
is  not  a  far  region  of  this  world,  amid  the  polar  seas 
or  beneath  the  burning  sun  of  the  equator,  where  some 
dauntless  explorer  has  not  carried  in  his  pocket  some 
volume  of  his  loved  poetry. 

"Poetry  preserves  for  us  the  glorious  memories  of 
history.  Through  poetry  we  know  the  glory  that  was 
Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.  Poetry 
keeps  for  us  the  intimate  life,  the  inner  life  of  the 
race.  Where  have  we  so  much  of  the  inner  life  of 
Scotland  as  we  have  in  Burns  ?  So  much  of  New  Eng 
land  as  we  have  in  Whittier?  So  much  of  Indiana  as 
we  have  in  Riley? 

"When  men  talk  about  the  decline  of  poetry,  the 
extinction  of  poetry  in  America,  the  question  is 
whether  America  is  to  be  a  nation  that  will  grow  rich 
and  crumble  and  disappear,  or  will  it  be  a  nation  that 
will  live  forever/' 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY 

IT  was  not  the  habit  of  the  Hoosier  Poet  to  explain. 
Again  and  again  his  friends  saw  him  as  through 
a  glass  darkly.  At  times  he  took  conspicuous 
pride  in  concealing  his  thought  and  his  way  of  doing 
things.  Many  assumptions  concerning  him  remained 
assumptions.  The  more  his  friends  sought  to  know 
his  history  the  more  capriciously  he  concealed  it.  In 
retaliation  they  took  delight  in  retailing  legends  and 
local  anecdotes  about  him.  They  were  apparently 
quite  willing  to  be  deceived.  To  his  co-workers  on  the 
Indianapolis  J&urnal  he  was  a  mystery,  not  a  great 
mystery,  but  a  mystery  nevertheless.  "It  is  a  wonder 
now,"  wrote  Anna  Nicholas  on  the  occasion  of  his 
death,  "that  he  accomplished  so  much,  for  it  was  a 
standing  joke  in  the  Journal  office  that  he  never 
worked — that  is,  that  he  never  knew  work  as  the  rest 
knew  it.  The  time  spent  at  his  desk  was  brief  com 
pared  to  the  hours  that  other  more  commonplace 
writers  found  necessary.  And  yet  a  look  at  the  six 
teen  volumes  of  his  poems  shows  that  he  did  work." 
Authors  also  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  "I  have 
not  words,"  wrote  Joseph  Knight  from  London  in  the 
'nineties,  "to  express  my  admiration  of  your  work,  nor 
my  astonishment,  how  in  the  course  of  a  journalistic 
career,  you  found  time  to  throw  off  those  beautiful 
lyrics  in  such  quick  succession." 

314 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  315 

While  employed  on  the  Anderson  Democrat  Riley 
wrote  "The  Frog,"  which  hopelessly  entangled  the 
speculations  of  his  companions.  "What  is  this  thing 
you  call  the  frog?"  they  asked.  "The  poet,"  Riley 
answered,  more  seriously  than  they  surmised.  "Don't 
you  know  that  a  poet  lives  an  amphibious  life?  We 
think  the  frog  should  drown  in  water;  he  does  not — 
just  why  I  can  not  explain.  Nor  can  I  explain  the 
two  lives  of  the  poet.  For  instance,  the  poet  sees 
things  in  the  night  that  his  brethren  of  the  day  do  not 
see  nor  believe.  The  Night 

"Under  her  big  black  wing 
Tells  him  the  tale  of  the  world  outright 
And  the  secret  of  everything. 

And  sometimes  when  the  poet  is  in  the  grip  of  old 
Giant  Despair,  in  a  deep  well,  for  instance,  and  knows 
not  how  to  get  out,  he  can  see  through  the  sky,  see 
through  it  as  he  sees  through  a  pane  of  glass,  and 
thus  see  stars  in  the  heavens  that  denizens  of  the  day 
do  not  see.  Seeing  heavenly  things  he  is  thus  enabled 
to  see  human  things — 

"All  paths  that  reach  the  human  heart, 

However  faint  and  dim, 
He  journeys,  for  the  darkest  night 
Is  light  as  day  to  him." 

Often  to  the  casual  observer,  Riley  did  not  seem  to 
be  at  work.  "No,"  he  would  say  to  reporters,  "I  am 
not  doing  anything  now;  just  nibbling  a  few  literary 
caramels."  Later  he  would  say  to  a  friend,  "They  do 
not  seem  to  understand  that  when  a  writer  is  doing 


316  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

nothing,  just  smoldering,  so  to  say,  he  is  actually 
doing  his  hardest  work.  Even  the  old  industrious 
Sam  Johnson  took  pride  in  being  an  idle  fellow." 

Later  in  Riley's  career  two  questions  called  per 
sistently  for  answer — When  and  How  did  he  write  his 
poems?  He  wrote  them  in  "the  ambrosial  dark," 
wrote  them  while  his  companions  slept,  wrote  them 
as  Longfellow  did  with  a  feather  stolen  from  the  sable 
wing  of  night.  "At  night,"  he  once  remarked,  "the 
moments  for  a  poet  are  supreme.  Then  angels  listen 
to  the  whisper  of  his  pencil  as  he  writes." 

The  habit  was  formed  at  a  very  early  date.  While 
painting  signs  for  local  merchants  he  slept  with  the 
night  watchman  in  the  old  Greenfield  Bank.  If  the 
watchman  woke  at  midnight  he  usually  found  the 
Painter  Poet  sitting  by  a  dim  lamp  with  a  pencil  and 
tablet  in  his  hand.  When  warned  against  the  loss  of 
sleep  he  waved  his  hand  for  silence  and  went  on  writ 
ing. 

Poor  Richard  told  the  folks  of  his  time  that  the 
night  created  thoughts  for  the  day  to  hatch.  Riley 
reversed  the  order — the  sleep  of  the  day  creating 
thoughts  for  the  night  to  hatch.  "I  do  my  writing 
almost  entirely  by  night,"  he  remarked  to  an  editor, 
"sleeping  several  hours  during  the  day  and  resting 
the  remainder  of  the  time.  I  just  dote  on  writing  one 
lonesome  poem  all  at  once,  and  believe  me,  the  night 
is  the  time  to  write  it.  A  hungry  dog  with  a  new 
bone  is  not  happier  than  I  am  when  hinged  to  a  poem 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  People  have  the  im 
pression  that  I  do  not  work — I  work  while  they  sleep. 
Although  I  may  lose  several  pounds,  I  get  better  re- 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  317 

suits."     In  his  "Open  Letter"  to  Benj.  S.  Parker  the 
poet's  hand  creeps  along  the  page  while  others  sleep : 

"All  the  night  for  him  holds  naught 
But  wakefulness  and  weary  thought; 
A  hand  that  wavers  and  grows  wan 
On  its  long  journey  toward  the  dawn 
That  often  breaks  upon  his  sight 
As  drear  and  barren  as  the  night; 
A  hand  that  writes  of  smiling  skies 
Pressing  the  lids  of  rainy  eyes 
Between  the  lines  of  joy  and  glee 
Born  out  of  gloom  and  agony." 

The  night  was  a  benediction,  a  great  presence. 
Sorrow  vanished,  or  if  it  remained,  the  night  like  a 
sympathetic  mother  gently  laid  her  hand  on  the 
fevered  brow.  "The  dead  of  night  was  the  noon  of 
thought." 

In  "The  Morgue,"  the  night  was  God's  shadow.  "I 
will  remember  thee  upon  my  bed,"  he  would  whisper, 
"and  meditate  on  thee  in  the  night  watches.  In  the 
shadow  of  thy  wings  will  I  praise  thee  with  joyful 
lips" — which  being  interpreted  meant  that  he  would 
meditate  in  rapture  on  nameless  visions  of  beauty  and 
simplicity  and  love — the  gifts  of  God  to  the  poet  for 
poems. 

At  night  Riley  inclined  to  inanimate  objects  as  if 
they  were  alive.  Such  was  his  fancy  when  writing  in 
the  "Crow's  Nest."  In  the  Seminary  Homestead  there 
was  a  quaint  old  clock  in  a  huge  cherry  case, 

"Where  seconds  dripped  in  the  silence 
As  the  rain  dripped  from  the  eaves." 


318  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

It  talked  to  him  and  gathered  secrets  from  folks  dur 
ing  the  day  for  his  use  at  night.  "Its  whisperings," 
said  he,  "could  be  heard  all  over  the  house,  and  when 
its  bell  broke  the  silence  of  midnight  it  woke  up  the 
frogs  and  water  bugs  on  the  banks  of  Brandywine. 
Long-buried  thoughts  stole  from  their  graves  and 
came  to  haunt  me." 

The  poet  did  his  best  work  in  the  late  watches  of 
the  night.  "Then  the  pageant  of  commercial  life  did 
not  molest  me,"  said  he.  "Time  was  unsoiled.  It  had 
a  dove's  wing  and  a  silken  sound.  Almost  always  I 
heard  the  clock  strike  four.  Often  a  very  tuneful  sen 
timent  came  to  the  door  of  my  lips : 

'Four  by  the  clock !  and  yet  not  day ; 
But  the  great  world  rolls  and  wheels  away, 
With  its  cities  on  land,  and  its  ships  at  sea, 
Into  the  dawn  that  is  to  be !' ' 

It  is  in  the  interest  of  accuracy  to  add  that  Riley 
did  not  keep  abnormal  hours  after  his  "three  weeks 
at  a  stretch"  had  terminated,  and  the  vehemence,  the 
lofty  ecstasy  of  creative  passion  had  subsided.  "Then," 
he  said,  "the  mercury  dropped  from  104  degrees  to 
temperate,  and  my  sleeping  hours  met  the  legal  re 
quirements." 

In  the  night  he  exchanged  greetings  with  the  days 
and  the  friends  gone  by.  Lost  companions  came  and 
built  near  him  the  fire  of  companionship.  Sometimes 
he  was  serious  with  them ;  at  other  times  quite  whim 
sical.  "You  don't  believe  in  ghosts,"  he  remarked  late 
in  life  to  his  secretary — "well,  I  do.  Indeed  it  is 
easier  to  believe  than  not  to  believe  in  them.  The  lad 
I  was  when  I  stood  in  the  solitude  of  the  woods,  by 


GREENFIELD  THE  MORNING  AFTER  LEE'S  SURRENDER 


THE  OLD  MASONIC  HALL,  GBEENFIELD,  TO  WHICH  THE  POET  RETURNED 
FOR  A  PUBLIC  READING  IN  1896 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  319 

Tharpe's  Pond,  comes  to  associate  with  me  at  night. 
He  is  not  a  tangible  being,  not  a  body  you  can  touch 
with  a  finger,  but  a  vivid  presence  here  in  my  room 
nevertheless.  He  is  the  ghost  of  my  boyhood  self,  and 
when  he  lingers  round,  my  heart  is  warm,  and  I  revel 
in  past  emotions  and  bygone  times.  I  tread  the 
scenes  of  my  youth  as  Dickens  did,  dig  up  buried 
treasures,  and  revisit  the  ashes  of  extinguished  fires. 

"Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me — 

"  'Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe, 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer' — 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  'Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book  that  all  may  read* — 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

"And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs, 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear." 

For  a  long  while  Riley  was  silent  as  to  the  author 
ship  of  those  lines.  It  gave  him  pleasure  to  caress 
and  to  hide  them.  Subsequently  he  gave  a  clue,  and 
when  the  secretary  traced  them  back  to  William  Blake 
in  the  favorite  British  Painters,  the  poet  talked  freely 
about  what  the  world  terms  the  fallacies  of  vision.  In 
youth  he  had  enshrined  the  lines  in  his  heart.  Before 


320  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

reading  the  story  of  Blake,  he  had  begun  to  live  a  life 
of  dreamy  abstraction.  He  had  always  been  afflicted 
with  periods  of  despair,  which  in  turn  were  succeeded 
by  moments  of  great  exaltation.  When  a  boy  at  play 
in  the  woods,  a  shadow  would  descend  upon  him,  and 
after  an  hour  of  gloom  end  in  "exquisite  agony." 
Later  he  became  more  susceptible  to  spiritual  influ 
ences.  He  began  to  see  the  forms  and  listen  to  the 
voices  of  the  masters  of  other  days.  He  had  flights 
of  genius,  or  whatever  name  you  may  give  it,  into  re 
gions  far  above  the  ordinary  sympathies  of  human  na 
ture.  "Imagine  my  frenzy,"  said  Riley,  "when  I  read 
that  Blake  at  twilight  hurried  to  the  seashore  to  hold 
high  converse  with  the  dead.  At  the  seaside  he  for 
got  the  present;  he  lived  in  the  past;  he  formed 
friendships  with  Homer  and  Pindar  and  Virgil.  Great 
men  appeared  before  him  and  he  talked  with  them. 
In  golden  moments  they  entrusted  him  with  their 
confidence. 

"And  then  to  think,"  Riley  added  vehemently,  "of 
a  matter-of-fact  biographer,  a  man  who  could  not 
paint  a  dreaming  fancy  if  he  tried  a  thousand  years 
— think  of  his  saying  that  Blake  mistook  the  vivid 
figures  which  swarmed  before  his  eyes  for  the  poets 
and  heroes  of  old.  By  what  law  of  the  unseen  could 
the  chronicler  say  that  celestial  tongues  had  not  com 
manded  the  artist  to  work  miracles?  If  anybody 
writes  about  me  in  that  way,  saying  that  my  dreams 
were  phantoms,  just  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,  I 
will  come  out  of  my  grave  and  pelt  him  with  the  head 
stone." 

On  a  subsequent  evening  when  the  poet  was  revamp 
ing  poems,  he  was  more  whimsical  than  serious.  At 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  321 

midnight  there  was  a  halt  for  milk  and  crackers,  and 
"a  little  ambrosia"  from  a  stimulating  book.  "I  almost 
wish,"  his  secretary  read  from  the  book,  "there  were 
no  day;  that  we  could  never  peep  through  the  blanket 
of  the  dark;  but  always  live  under  those  genial  influ 
ences,  which  the  spirits  of  the  other  world  have  se 
lected  as  most  agreeable  for  visits  to  this  earth — the 
witching  hour  when  ghosts  and  goblins  walk."  Work 
continued  till  three  o'clock,  the  small  hour  of  the  new 
day.  Suddenly  a  Tom  cat  broke  the  silence,  "yodling 
and  yowling"  in  his  lonely  way  while  he  walked  the 
fence  beneath  the  window.  Riley  listened  for  several 
moments,  his  head  still  bending  over  his  work.  "Edgar 
Allan  Poe!"  he  drawled  out,  to  which  the  secretary 
added — "the  witching  hour  when  ghosts  and  goblins 
walk." 

To  Riley  the  night  was  a  guest  that  had  been  lin 
gering  somewhere  in  space,  and  had  come  down  the 
pathways  of  dusk  to  greet  him  on  the  threshold.  "Do 
you  know,"  he  writes  in  his  sketch,  "Eccentric  Mr. 
Clark,"  "that  the  night  is  a  great  mystery  to  me — a 
great  mystery!  To  me  the  night  is  like  some  vast, 
incomprehensible  being.  When  I  write  the  name 
'night'  I  instinctively  write  it  with  a  capital.  And  I 
like  my  nights  deep  and  dark  and  swarthy.  Some  like 
clear  and  starry  nights,  but  they  are  too  pale  for  me — 
too  weak  and  fragile  altogether!  They  are  popular 
with  the  masses,  of  course,  these  blue-eyed,  golden- 
haired  moonlight-on-the-lake  nights;  but,  someway  I 
do  not  stand  in  with  them.  My  favorite  night  is  the 
pronounced  brunette — the  darker  the  better." 

Precisely  as  "Mr.  Clark"  did,  the  poet  drifted  into 
the  deepening  gloom  and  was  swallowed  up  in  it — lost 


322  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

utterly.     He  wanted  to  "wade  out  into  the  darkness 
and  knead  it  in  his  hands  like  dough." 

In  "The  Flying  Islands"  the  poet  was  a  king,  and 
the  "lovely  blackness  the  densest  of  all  mysteries" — 
a  mother  or  a  sweetheart  come  to  fold  him  away  in 
the  arms  of  love — 

"Oft  have  I  looked  in  your  eyes,  0  Night — 

Night,  my  Night,  with  your  rich  black  hair! — 
Looked  in  your  eyes  till  my  face  waned  white 
And  my  heart  laid  hold  of  a  mad  delight 
That  moaned  as  I  held  it  there 
Under  the  deeps  of  that  dark  despair — 
Under  your  rich  black  hair." 

The  night  was  a  great  mystery,  but  there  was  an 
other,  and  that  was  the  poet's  inability  to  account 
for  the  poem  after  it  was  written.  When  he  was  asked 
to  explain  such  "poetic  fungi,"  as  "Craqueodoom," 
which  drew  a  tide  of  criticism  and  inquiry  to  his  desk 
in  the  Anderson  Democrat  office,  his  reply,  some 
thought,  was  as  mysterious  as  the  mystery  he  at 
tempted  to  explain: 

I  feel  that  I  place  myself  in  rather  a  peculiar  posi 
tion,  (he  said,  in  an  open  letter  in  the  Democrat). 
However,  in  doing  so,  I  can  but  trust  to  escape  the  in 
cessant  storm  of  inquiries  hailed  so  piteously  upon  me 
since  the  appearance  of  the  poem — or  whatever  it  is. 

As  to  its  meaning — if  it  has  any — I  am  as  much  in 
the  dark  and  as  badly  worried  over  its  incompre 
hensibility  as  any  one  who  may  have  inflicted  himself 
with  the  reading  of  it;  in  fact,  more  so,  for  I  have  in 
my  possession  now  not  less  than  a  dozen  of  a  similar 
character;  and  when  I  say  they  were  only  composed 
mechanically,  without  apparent  exercise  of  my 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  323 

thought,  I  find  myself  at  the  threshold  of  a  fact  which 
I  can  not  pass. 

I  can  only  surmise  that  such  effusions  emanate  from 
long  and  arduous  application — a  sort  of  poetic  fungus 
that  springs  from  the  decay  of  better  effort.  It  bursts 
into  being  of  itself  and  in  that  alone  do  I  find  consola 
tion. 

The  process  of  such  composition  may  furnish  a 
curious  fact  to  many,  yet  I  am  assured  every  writer 
of  either  poetry  or  music  will  confirm  the  experience 
I  am  about  to  relate. 

After  long  labor  at  verse,  you  will  find  there  comes 
a  time  when  everything  you  see  or  hear,  touch,  taste 
or  smell,  resolves  itself  into  rhyme,  and  rattles  away 
till  you  can  not  rest.  I  mean  this  literally.  The 
people  you  meet  upon  the  streets  are  so  many  dis 
arranged  rhymes  and  only  need  proper  coupling.  The 
boulders  in  the  sidewalk  are  jangled  words.  The 
crowd  of  corner  loafers  is  a  mangled  sonnet  with  a 
few  lines  lacking.  The  farmer  and  his  team  an  idyl 
of  the  road,  perfected  and  complete  when  he  stops  at 
the  picture  of  a  grocery  and  hitches  to  an  exclamation 
point. 

This  is  my  experience,  and  at  times  the  effect  upon 
both  mind  and  body  is  exhausting  in  the  extreme.  I 
have  passed  as  many  as  three  nights  in  succession 
without  sleep — or  at  least  without  mental  respite  from 
this  tireless  something  which 

"Beats  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain." 

I  walk,  I  run,  I  writhe  and  wrestle  with  it,  but  I  can 
not  shake  it  off.  I  lie  down  to  sleep,  and  all  night 
long  it  haunts  me.  Whole  cantos  of  incoherent 
rhymes  dance  before  me,  and  so  vividly  at  last  I  seem 
to  read  them  as  from  a  book.  All  this  is  without  will 
power  of  my  own  to  guide  or  check:  and  then  occurs 
a  stage  of  repetition — when  the  matter  becomes 


324  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

rhythmically  tangible  at  least,  and  shapes  itself  into  a 
whole,  of  sometimes  a  dozen  stanzas,  and  goes  on  re 
peating  itself  over  and  over  till  it  is  printed  indelibly 
in  my  mind. 

This  is  the  history  of  the  "Craqueodoom."  I  have 
theorized  in  vain.  I  went  gravely  to  a  doctor  on  one 
occasion,  and  asked  him  seriously  if  he  did  not  think 
I  was  crazy.  His  laconic  reply  that  he  "never  saw  a 
poet  who  was  not !"  is  not  without  consolation.  I  have 
talked  with  numerous  writers  regarding  my  strange 
affliction,  and  they  invariably  confirm  a  like  experi 
ence,  only  excepting  the  inability  to  recall  these  Gipsy 
changelings  of  a  vagrant  mind. 

Very  truly, 

J.  W.  RILEY. 

"Call  me  Little  Man,"  Riley  once  remarked,  "or 
Mr.  Clickwad,  or  any  other  name  you  like,  but  don't 
forget  I  am  your  old  friend  and  well-wisher,  the  Ad 
justable  Lunatic."  In  the  prose  sketch  of  that  title  he 
is  puzzled  and  bewildered  over  his  compositions.  "No 
line  of  them  but  canters  through  his  brain  like  a  frac 
tious  nightmare.  No  syllable  but  fastens  on  his  fancy 
like  a  leech,  and  sucks  away  the  life  blood  of  his  very 
thought.  He  is  troubled,  worried,  fretted,  vexed  and 
haunted ;  and  hopes  wiser  minds  will  have  the  oppor 
tunity  of  making  his  literary  foundlings  the  subject 
of  investigation." 

A  luscious  bit  of  verse  was,  in  several  respects,  as 
miraculous  to  Riley  as  apples  blushing  in  orchard  trees. 
"Poems  grow,  you  know,  like  potatoes  and  other  vege 
tables,"  he  said,  "but  some  of  them  ripen  more  slow 
ly  than  others,  and  some  have  scab  on  them  and  decay 
before  they  are  ready  to  pull." 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  325 

In  his  later  years  the  mystery  about  his  poems  had 
not  vanished  as  seen  in  the  following  from  Evanston, 
Illinois : 

Dear  friend  and  brother — For  such  you  seem  to  us 
all,  who  confess  with  honest  gratitude  your  " touch  of 
Nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin" — my  first 
thought  on  reading  the  enclosed  this  morning.  We 
all  cried  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  question  was, 
"How  James  Whitcomb  Riley  could  tell  that  to  the 
world."  Maybe  you  will  not  feel  called  to  answer  it, 
but  I  send  this  for  your  reading  all  the  same,  and  am 
with  thanks  for  lovely,  genial  thoughts, 
Your  friend  sincerely, 

FRANCES  WILLARD. 

The  illustrious  woman  and  her  friends  had  been 
touched  by  the  consoling  "Bereaved."  Never  in  her 
opinion  had  the  grief  of  childlessness  found  such  ex 
pression — • 

"In  an  empty  room  she  read  it; 

As  she  read  it,  wept  and  smiled — > 
She  who  never  was  a  mother 
Felt  within  her  arms  the  child." 

She  was  constrained  to  believe  that  such  verse 
would  last  "while  this  world  is  a  world,  and  there 
exists  in  it  human  souls  to  kindle  at  the  touch  of 
genius,  and  human  hearts  to  throb  with  human  sym 
pathies."  In  this  connection  she  had  asked  a  ques 
tion  the  poet  could  not  answer.  "I  was  awakened  far 
in  the  night  as  by  a  summons,"  he  told  her  after 
ward,  "and  in  seeming  answer  I  arose  and  the  poem 
came  trickling  through  my  tears.  What  it  was  that 
woke  me  I  can  not  tell.  Was  it  the  pitying  gaze  of 


326  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

fathers  and  mothers  keeping  their  lonely  vigil  through 
the  night?  Was  it  the  cry  of  empty  arms  for  the 
touch  of  vanished  fingers?  Was  it  an  angel  ray  of 
light,  a  celestial  petition  from  the  land  of  dreams  and 
sleep?  I  do  not  know." 

In  the  same  way  about  the  same  time  he  was  sum 
moned  to  write  "The  Poet  of  the  Future."  "One 
evening  when  I  had  an  engagement,"  he  explained,  "I 
felt  too  restless  and  worn  to  fulfill  it;  so  I  asked  my 
friends  to  excuse  me.  I  went  to  bed  expecting  a  good 
rest,  thinking  I  should  have  been  there  long  before. 
I  had  not  had  more  than  a  moment's  peace  when  I 
found  I  could  not  stay  there.  I  saw  something  and  I 
could  no  more  lie  still  than  I  could  fly.  It  was  the 
thread  of  gold — His  face  to  heaven,  and  the  dew  of 
duty  on  his  brow — a  good  line  and  I  knew  it.  I  wrote 
the  poem  before  midnight,  and  after  a  week's  severe 
revision  sent  it  to  the  Century." 

In  similar  vein  the  poet  gave  a  clue  to  the  origin  of 
the  beloved  "Away."  The  poem  occasioned  many  let 
ters  and  newspaper  comments.  "I  was  confined  to 
my  bed,"  he  wrote  a  friendly  editor.  "I  was  ill  and 
weak  and  all  alone.  My  eyes  were  inflamed,  and  so 
I  just  rolled  over  and  wept  with  the  weather." 

The  poem  had  been  written  after  the  death  of  Gen 
eral  William  H.  H.  Terrell,  who,  as  an  aid  to  Governor 
0.  P.  Morton,  had  rendered  distinguished  service  to 
his  country  in  the  Civil  War.  Not  less  important,  in 
Riley's  opinion,  was  the  fact  that  the  General  gave 
"the  sweetest  love  of  his  life  to  simple  things."  While 
walking  in  a  garden  after  a  shower  Riley  observed  the 
General  stoop  to  pity  "a  honey-bee  wet  with  rain." 

"I  value  my  poems,"  Riley  once  said,  "not  because 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  327 

they  are  mine  but  because  they  are  not."  The  re 
mark  should  not  occasion  a  shock.  There  was  the 
"hammering  process,"  the  "carpenter  work,"  in  the 
making  of  poems,  but  that  did  not  account  for  them, 
any  more  than  the  night  accounted  for  the  light  of  a 
star.  The  poet  was  once  told  that  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  preached  his  wonderful  sermons  while  in  a 
trance.  "True  as  Gospel,"  added  Riley — "the  miracle 
of  genius  in  the  pulpit  which  the  preacher  himself 
could  not  explain.  When  I  talk  to  Lew  Wallace  I  am 
not  talking  to  the  author  of  Ben  HUT.  That  book  was 
an  inspiration  and  Wallace  was  the  instrument  of  the 
inspiration.  We  say  the  farmer  raised  a  crop  of  corn. 
Not  at  all.  He  was  just  an  instrument  along  with  a 
host  of  others  for  the  transmission  of  the  poem  to 
the  farm,  for  that  is  what  a  cornfield  is — a  poem. 
Fairies  worked  with  him  in  the  field.  Far  away  in 
the  tropics  they  worked  for  him  all  summer.  Watery 
particles  traveled  a  thousand  miles  to  contribute  to 
his  success.  Unlike  him,  the  fairies  did  not  rest  from 
their  labors.  While  he  slept  they  refreshed  the  air 
and  filled  his  spring  with  sparkling  water.  While  he 
plowed,  the  fairy  power  of  precipitation  was  at  work 
in  the  clouds  on  the  horizon.  What  had  he  to  do  with 
the  shower  that  drifted  to  his  neighborhood  late  in 
the  afternoon?  No,  he  is  not  the  author  of  the  poem. 
He  could  not  hang  a  cloud  in  the  sky  if  he  tried  a 
million  years.  Impulses  prompt  me  to  write  but  I  am 
not  the  author  of  them: 

"  'Nor  is  it  I  who  play  the  part, 
But  a  shy  spirit  in  my  heart 
That  comes  and  goes— will  sometimes  leap 
From  hiding  places  ten  years  deep/  " 


328  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"One  thing,  Mr.  Riley,  I  do  not  understand,"  a 
young  woman  once  said  to  him,  "and  that  is  where  you 
get  all  the  little  stories  for  your  poems."  He  an 
swered  in  a  vague  way,  telling  her  that  poets,  like 
other  folks,  had  to  find  their  own  material  and  board 
themselves. 

"It  would  have  been  no  use  to  tell  her,"  he  remarked 
to  a  friend  after  she  had  gone,  "that  God  made  the 
little  stories,  and  that  He  has  given  me  ability  to  see 
them  a  little  plainer  than  some  others,  and  endowed 
me  with  skill  to  sketch  them  so  that  my  readers  can 
see  them  clearly.  And  I  have  to  be  very  watchful," 
he  added  shrewdly,  "not  to  work  in  too  much  Riley, 
as  that  would  mar  the  beauty  of  the  poem." 

Humility  and  reverence,  as  he  saw  it,  should  be  the 
spirit  of  the  poet.  Thus  Bryant's  "Waterfowl"  be 
came  a  favorite  poem.  There  was  a  Power  whose 
care  directed  his  footsteps  as  it  did  the  flight  of  the 
bird  along  a  pathless  coast.  Should  the  chosen  guide, 
as  Wordsworth  wrote,  be  nothing  but  a  wandering 
cloud  he  could  not  lose  his  way. 

For  a  similar  reason  Newman's  "Pillar  of  Cloud" 
became  a  favorite  hymn.  Its  ending,  Riley  regarded 
as  the  two  most  poetic  lines  in  hymnology.  "Their 
very  simplicity,"  he  said,  "is  divine."  Often  when 
his  path  was  enveloped  in  darkness,  he  prayed  for  the 
Kindly  Light  to  lead  him  amid  the  encircling  gloom: 

"Keep  thou  my  feet!    I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene — one  step  enough  for  me." 

"Geographies,"  said  he,  "tell  about  the  tides  that 
fill  bays  and  estuaries  on  the  coasts  of  continents. 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  329 

There  are  other  tides.  On  never-ending  ministrations 
of  love  and  delight  they  flow  between  heaven  and  earth 
— those  heavenward  bearing  tidings  from  earth,  those 
earthward  bearing  tidings  from  heaven,  and  the  man 
who  denies  their  existence  is  to  be  pitied  as  we  pity 
the  man  far  inland,  who  takes  exception  to  the  sea 
tides  because  their  waves  do  not  reach  him.  Invisible 
messages  as  Longfellow  shows  flow  to  us  on  these 
tides,  the  murmurs  of  the  rapture  and  woe  we  call  the 
poet's  songs.  There  too  is  the  cry,  the  transport  of 
the  departed,  seeking  happier  climes,  and 

"  'From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 
With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme.' 

Depend  upon  it,  those  promptings  from  the  unknown 
come  unbidden,  and  when  they  come,  all  suddenly,  the 
poet  is  transported  to  an  upper  realm." 

Referring  to  the  popular  poems,  'The  Legend  Glori 
fied/'  "The  Harper,"  "The  Pixy  People,"  "The  Beauti 
ful  City,"  and  "Her  Beautiful  Eyes,"  Riley  told  a  re 
porter  that  he  "did  not  make  them.  God  made  them," 
said  he ;  "all  that  I  do  is  to  fit  the  words  to  them.  I 
am  a  sort  of  a  mental  camera,  that  catches  the  stories. 
I  develop  the  plate — and  there  you  are.  And  just 
here  I  must  protest  against  the  opinion  of  our  dear 
Longfellow  who  claims  that  it  is  sheer  laziness  in  a 
poet  to  refrain  from  writing  because  he  is  not  in  the 
mood.  As  I  see  it,  he  who  attempts  to  write  when 
not  in  the  mood  prostitutes  his  powers. 


330  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"  'Do  not  strain  the  chords  of  thought ; 
The  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 
Comes  its  own  way,  and  comes  unsought.' 

I  never  know  whether  I  can  write  another  good  thing 
or  not — but  what  am  I  saying?  I  never  wrote  any 
thing.  I  found  it." 

In  Portland,  Oregon,  a  schoolboy  asked  the  poet 
whether  he  laid  any  claim  to  inspiration,  and  whether 
he  was  wholly  or  in  part  the  author  of  "A  Remarkable 
Man."  He  assured  the  lad  there  were  symptoms  of 
inspiration.  "The  story,"  he  said,  "would  not  be  put 
off  nor  take  no  for  an  answer.  It  simply  made  me  do 
it.  It  borned  itself,  you  can  most  truthfully  tell  your 
teacher — and  just  like  America  here  when  Columbus 
'hopped  her  up  out  of  the  brush/ ' 

The  poet  was  touring  the  Pacific  Slope  (December, 
1892).  To  a  San  Francisco  reporter  he  affirmed  that 
a  writer,  if  he  has  a  message  for  the  people,  is  driven 
to  his  life-work  by  an  inexorable  law.  "I  wanted  to 
be  a  painter,  a  musician,  an  editor,  an  actor,"  he  said. 
"The  Fates  said  No,  and  it  took  rough  boxing  and 
cudgelling  to  bring  me  round  to  their  view.  In  youth 
your  own  Bret  Harte  was  lured  to  this  Golden  West. 
He  wanted  to  be  a  miner.  Failing  in  that  he  tried 
school-teaching,  the  express  business  and  the  news 
paper  office.  The  Fates  had  to  thump  the  young  man 
twenty  years  before  he  saw  that  his  Golden  Fleece 
was  the  Man  at  the  Semaphore,  the  Fool  of  Five 
Forks,  Jack  Hamlin,  and  the  sunset  on  Black  Spur." 

With  Riley,  disclaiming  authorship  of  a  book  or  a 
poem  was  not  just  the  whim  or  privilege  of  a  day  or  a 
year.  It  was  constitutional.  "I  am  only  the  reed 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  331 

that  the  whistle  blows  through,"  was  his  habitual  re 
mark.  The  poet's  gift,  he  averred,  is  "from  the 
Creator  and  should  be  used  by  the  Creator.  The  poet 
is  the  violin  from  whose  soul  is  lured  melody  by  the 
touch  of  a  master  hand."  Booth  Tarkington  observes 
that  Riley  "never  outgrew  his  astonishment  that  he 
happened  to  be  what  he  was;  he  was  always  in  sur 
prise  that  he,  instead  of  another,  had  been  the  reed 
selected  by  the  cosmic  musician."  Anna  Nicholas 
confirms  the  novelist's  observation.  "Riley  had  no 
exalted  idea  of  his  ability,"  she  writes;  "on  the  con 
trary  he  lacked  self-confidence.  His  literary  suc 
cess,  I  think,  surprised  him  more  than  any  one  else. 
He  was  immensely  pleased  of  course,  and  recognition 
in  high  literary  quarters  gave  him  boyish  satisfac 
tion,  which  he  frequently^  expressed;  but  he  did  not 
altogether  understand  it  or  realize  that  what  he  pro 
duced  with  such  ease  and  in  such  perfection  was 
through  a  power  above  and  beyond  himself.  He  did 
not  see  that  it  was  genius.  More  than  once  he  said 
to  me,  half  laughing,  but  still  serious :  'It  is  all  a  bluff. 
I  have  them  hypnotized.'  Riley  was  a  man  of  moods. 
His  writing  power  was  not  at  his  command.  He 
wrote  when  inspiration  came." 

Writing  Henry  Van  Dyke  after  he  was  fifty,  the 
poet  said,  "I  have  a  book  for  you,  which  will  find  you 
soon.  I  did  not  write  it,  but  it  is  good.  Gratefully 
and  with  all  hale  affection,  your  old  friend,  James 
Whitcomb  Riley." 

Whether  at  home  or  in  foreign  lands,  his  answer 
was  always  the  same.  "No,"  he  replied  to  a  reporter 
in  the  city  of  Mexico,  "I  can  not  say  whether  I  shall 
write  a  poem  on  this  tropic  land.  I  never  can  tell  in 


332  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

advance  about  what  my  poetry  is  to  be.  I  wait  for 
the  spirit  to  move  me."  And  often  according  to  his 
own  testimony  he  had  to  wait  a  long  while.  "You 
did  not  amount  to  much  over  here,"  said  an  old  resi 
dent  of  Greenfield ;  <*we  never  thought  you  would  come 
to  the  front  the  way  you  have ;  we  hear  you  get  a  dol 
lar  a  word  for  your  poems."  "Yes,"  returned  Riley, 
"but  there  are  days  when  I  can  not  think  of  a  single 
word.  Simply,  the  winds,"  he  explained  to  his  old 
neighbor,  "would  not  blow." 

Though  he  hung  out  every  rag  he  could  find  to  the 
scanty  breeze,  the  barge  moved  sluggishly.  It  was 
like  his  voyage  across  the  Atlantic:  Tuesday  and 
Wednesday,  inspiring — weather  soft,  warm  and 
beautiful.  He  was  near  the  Gulf  Stream.  Thursday 
and  Friday,  seaweed — just  rain  and  gloom,  and  then 
gloom  and  rain. 

The  opinion  of  masters  on  the  subject  were  uncom 
monly  interesting  to  Riley.  "Who,"  wrote  Elbert 
Hubbard,  "taught  Abraham  Lincoln  and  Whitcomb 
Riley  how  to  throw  the  lariat  of  their  imagination 
over  us,  rope  us  hand  and  foot,  and  put  their  brand 
upon  us?  Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean — who  educated 
them?  God  educated  them." 

"Whose  hand  smote  the  lyre  of  the  Scottish  Plow 
man?"  asked  Henry  Watterson.  "I  don't  know." 

"No  man  knows,"  continued  Riley;  "you  can  no 
more  explain  Burns  than  you  can  explain  the  dew  on 
the  meadow."  He  went  on  to  describe  a  man,  unlet 
tered  and  poor,  living  in  a  hut  with  scarcely  enough 
money  from  week  to  week  to  pay  for  candlelight.  He 
was  a  poet,  but  institutions  of  culture  did  not  believe 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  333 

it.  In  some  way,  a  mystery  to  him  as  to  them,  he  was 
commissioned  of  the  Unseen  to  write  lyrics. 

Always  there  was  the  mystery  that  so  many  writers, 
Joel  Chandler  Harris,  Bret  Harte,  Mark  Twain  and 
others,  were  not  college  men.  In  this  connection,  the 
historian,  John  Clark  Ridpath  wrote  as  follows,  in 
1892:  "James  Whitcomb  Riley  has  had  the  good 
fortune  to  become  what  he  was  born  to  be — the  poet 
of  the  human  heart.  It  might  be  difficult  to  find  an 
other  man  of  Riley's  age,  belonging  to  the  intellectual 
classes,  who  bears  about  with  him  so  little  of  that 
commodity  which  the  bookmen  and  teachers  label  edu 
cation.  I  sorrow  to  inform  the  public  that  of  mathe 
matics  and  geography,  science  and  the  like,  our  poet 
has  none  at  all.  He  is  in  this  respect  as  poverty- 
stricken  as  Shakespeare  was  in  the  little  matter  of 
Greek.  With  grief  I  divulge  the  fact  that  to  this  day 
Riley  does  not  formally  know  a  nominative  from  an 
objective !  It  is  doubtless  true  that  his  school-life  was 
a  total  failure — and  so  much  the  better.  For  it  is  per 
fectly  clear,  in  the  retrospect,  that  the  formalities  of 
a  graded  and  high  school  would  have  confused,  and 
perhaps  obscured,  what  has  proved  to  be  the  most  pro 
ductive  genius  of  the  Mississippi  Valley." 

In  conversation  Riley  was  prone  to  the  use  of  ex 
travagant  figures,  when  trying  to  make  inspiration 
intelligible,  but  he  usually  ended  with  the  confession 
that  he  could  not  find  the  key,  that  with  words  it  was 
impossible  to  shed  light  upon  it.  Why  should  he,  an 
uncouth  youth  in  a  country  town,  without  a  glimpse 
of  college  life,  with  no  knowledge  from  books  of  the 
laws  of  versification,  syntax  as  obscure  as  the  origin 


334  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

of  man,  figures  of  rhetoric  a  tanglewood  of  riddles, 
iambic  measures  and  heroic  couplets  as  unintelligible 
as  hallelujah  meters — why  should  he  be  the  instru 
ment? 

From  first  to  last  Riley  was  radiant  with  gratitude 
when  he  could  come  from  his  study  with  the  good  word 
that  the  Seraph  had  drifted  through  his  dreams  and 
filled  the  chancels  of  his  soul  with  heavenly  whisper 
ings.  At  noon  after  his  work  at  night,  he  would  tell 
of  melodious  refrains  with  which  he  had  been 
entranced  in  his  sleep.  "Everything  I  write,"  he 
wrote  James  Newton  Matthews,  "seems  to  me  as  if  I 
had  simply  found  it  and  had  no  right  to  it — that  is, 
with  the  present  ownership  of  the  thing,  and  I  don't 
think  I  have.  It  is  exactly  on  the  principle  of  the 
dreams  I  have  had — dreams  that  were  mine  undeni 
ably,  but  I  in  no  wise  responsible  for  their  mental 
construction — therefore  with  no  right  to  claim  any  of 
their  excellence  in  that  particular,  an  excellence  some 
times  extraordinary.  In  dreams  I  have  built  pages 
and  pages  of  marvelous  verse  that  floated  before  the 
mental  vision  as  smooth  and  pure  and  lucid  as  the 
clearest  print — verse  that  charmed  the  author  at  times 
with  excellently  molded  sentences  of  purest  poetry, 
that  he  dwelt  upon  and  extolled  and  read  again  and 
again.  All  that  is  the  dream's  composition  and  the 
poet  did  not  write  a  line  of  it  and  can  not  claim  it, 
can  not  claim  it  at  least  when  he  wakes  in  the  morning, 


"Like  a  drowsy  boy  that  lingers 

With  a  dream  of  pleasure  rare, 
And  wakens  with  his  fingers 
Grasping  only  empty  air. 


THE  UNFAILING  MYSTERY  335 

"That  is  my  theory,  and  I  am  only  proud  because  I 
have  found  the  poem.  I  found  one  this  afternoon, 
'A  Glimpse  of  Pan/  and  it  has  tickled  me  half  to 
death,  and  I  am  going  to  copy  it  for  you  and  go  to 
bed/' 

Writing  the  gifted  Madison  Cawein,  he  said,  "Your 
genius  has  my  profoundest  admiration.  In  this  en 
dowment  God  himself  is  manifest  in  you — and  hence 
with  what  divine  humility  must  you  combat  the  Evil 
One,  and  with  what  care  guard  the  great  truth  from 
any  touch  too  merely  human.  Give  nothing  to  it  but 
pure  joy,  and  beauty,  and  compassion,  and  tenderness : 
a  Christ-like  laying  on  of  hands  on  brows  that  ache 
and  wounds  that  bleed,  fainting  from  pain,  and  worn 
and  weary." 

"Everybody's  learning  all  the  time,"  Riley  was  wont 
to  say.  "Never  any  venture  of  my  life  was  any  more 
than  a  trial  at  some  attainment — an  experiment — not 
a  forecast  certainty  of  accomplishment.  The  fact  is, 
keeps  me  duly  humble,  and  ought  to.  Whatever  good 
is  wrought  is  not  our  doing — it  is  through  us,  not  of 
us.  And  that  is  what  God  wants  to  beat  in  us,  and 
when  we  just  won't  have  it  so,  why,  then  He  lets  loose 
of  us  that  we  may  see,  and  the  whole  united  populace 
as  well,  that  here  is  another  weighed-and-found-want- 
ing  candidate  for  enduring  glory." 

Ascending  the  scale,  there  was  in  the  invisible 
around  him  a  melody  born  of  Melody,  which  as  Emer 
son  had  said,  melts  the  visible  world  into  a  sea.  In 
that  world  of  mystery  and  miracle  there  was  no 
gradation.  All  was  music.  The  poet's  function  was 
to  record  the  "primal  warblings."  The  sorrow  of 
sorrows  was  that  he  could  never  wholly  fling  himself 


336  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

into  the  enchanted  circle,  never  wholly  surrender  his 
will  to  the  Universal  Power. 

According  to  Riley  the  poet  was  not  a  poet  until  he 
was  in  tune  with  the  Infinite  Melody.  Indeed,  he  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that,  in  the  poetic  sense,  the  poet  was 
not  a  man.  He  himself  was  not  a  man  when  not 
poetic  in  thought  and  spirit.  The  "primal  warblings" 
were  not  his  handiwork.  They  were  beyond  the 
height  or  effort  of  art.  They  were  the  gift  of  God. 
"That  they  ravish  the  heart  of  an  inferior  man  like 
me,"  he  said,  "is  evidence  that  God  intends  them  for 
the  whole  of  mankind." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
BUILDING  BOOKS 

BETWEEN  the  Rhyme.s  of  Childhood  (1890)  and 
The  Book  of  Joyous  Children  (1902)  lay  the 
period  of  book  building, — "my  appeal  to  the 
appreciative  majority,"  he  expressed  it, — "not  the 
effort  to  tickle  the  ears  of  a  half  dozen  cynics  in  the 
front  row."  Insistent  was  the  call — and  he  answered 
it.  Books  should  speak  for  him.  "A  new  book?"  an 
old  Greenfield  friend  would  ask.  "I  hope  so,"  Riley 
would  reply.  "This  old  home  atmosphere  is  worth 
preserving;  it  is  passing  quickly  away  and  will  soon 
be  gone." 

While  he  was  on  the  road  in  the  'eighties  he  had  not 
given  to  his  books  the  personal  attention  they  de 
served.  In  1890  when  new  plates  were  made  for  the 
revised  Pipes  o'  Pan  and  Afterwhiles  his  book  decade 
may  be  said  to  have  begun.  Annually  after  that  his 
audience  expected  a  new  volume.  "I  am  a  very  busy 
man,"  he  remarked  to  an  Omaha  reporter  in  1897, 
"but  there  must  be  some  mistake  about  it  for  I  was 
never  inclined  to  be  industrious.  You  have  no  idea 
how  lazy  I  can  be.  You  see  I  am  more  or  less  jealous 
of  my  reputation.  Years  ago  I  made  a  scratch  hit 
with  a  little  book  and  since  then  I  have  been  trying 
to  keep  people  thinking,  they  were  right  in  their  first 
judgment." 

"Printers  are  snowing  me  under  with  proofs,"  he 
wrote  Madison  Cawein,  "and  my  intellect,  such  as  it 

337 


338  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

is,  is  tottering  on  its  kinky-springed  and  lumpily-up 
holstered  throne.  Actually  I  have  a  bank  account.  I 
not  only  publish  a  book  but  get  something  out  of  it, 
and — when  my  brother-in-law  looks  after  the  proceeds 
— I  hold  on  to  some  of  them.  It  means  that  I  was 
made  to  do  the  monkeyshines — not  to  take  in  the  gate 
money  and  flop  it  down  on  the  table  and  hold  it  there." 

"It  is  comforting  to  know  you  are  not  dead  yet,"  he 
wrote  a  friend  in  Nebraska  (November,  1890).  "God 
bless  and  keep  you  in  the  earthly  ranks  till  I  drop  out 
anyhow!  Just  now  I  am  given  over  wholly  to  the 
book-habit.  They  are  multiplying  by  litters,  like 
white  mice!  There  is  such  a  demand  in  fact  that  I 
fear  to  turn  away — lest  my  luck  let  up  and  flop  over 
and  die  on  the  flat  of  its  back.  My  best  prayers  are 
with  you  always.  Not  in  my  prosperity  is  any  friend 
forgot — the  poorest  one  of  all  is  my  superior,  whether 
in  Congress  or  in  jail." 

A  month  later  he  wrote  Has  Wilson,  the  Quiet  Ob 
server  of  the  Pittsburgh  Gazette,  and  one  of  the  poet's 
most  loyal  friends: 

December  29,  1890. 
Dear  friend  Wilson: 

By  this  time  I  know  you  are  beginning  to  suspect 
me  not  only  of  neglect  but  base  ingratitude,  but 
neither  am  I  guilty  of,  in  the  least.  Simply  the 
Christmas  season  has  been  here — and  so  have  I. 

Ah,  my  dear  man!  how  I  bless  you  for  your  treat 
ment  of  Rhymes  of  Childhood,  and  how  I  want  to 
show  you  letters  from  the  most  exacting  of  the 
Nation's  literary  celebrities  indorsing  virtually  your 
every  word  of  commendation  and  welcome.  Truly  the 
venture  is  a  great  "go" — and  up  to  date  the  pressmen 
and  the  binders  can't  keep  up  with  the  demand.  This, 


BUILDING  BOOKS  339 

too,  seems  to  have  roused  up  an  older  interest,  so  that, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  my  earlier  books  are  swept  clean 
out  of  market,  and  newer  thousands  of  them  are  again 
being  ground  out  of  the  great  literary  sausage  ma 
chine. 

As  ever  your  grateful  friend, 

J.  W.   RlLEY. 

Again  and  again  he  declined  flattering  lecture 
invitations.  As  Agassiz  had  said,  he  could  not  waste 
his  time  in  money -making.  In  1892  he  requested  a 
magazine  editor  to  return  promptly  all  unprinted 
poems.  "I  must  shift  for  'em  right  away,"  he  wrote. 
"Am  gittin'  oldish-like  and  must  be  a-humpin'  'fore 
rumatiz  sets  in."  Five  years  later  he  was  still  busy 
but  considerably  the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear. 

April  16,  1897. 

Dr.  William  C.  Cooper  (of  Cleves,  Ohio). 
Dear  old  friend: 

Your  most  heartening  poem  is  simply  getting 
hugged.  Don't  know  how  to  control  my  feelings  in 
anything  like  decorum  when  all  at  once  called  upon 
to  face  so  generous  a  tribute.  Can't  you  send  a  little 
homeopathic  poet  your  formula?  I've  got  patients, 
and  fees,  all  waiting,  but  I'm  clean  run  out  of  the 
curative  essence,  so  to  speak.  God  gives  nuts  to 
those  who  have  no  teeth,  you  know,  and  now  that  my 
poetry  is  over-besought  and  over-valued  I  could  not 
apprehend  a  rhyme  for  dove  without  a  bench  warrant ! 
As  always  your  affectionate  Jamesie. 

August  17,  1897. 
W.  C.  Edgar,  Esq.,  Minneapolis. 
Dear  Mr.  Edgar: 

It  is  good  of  you  to  invite  still  another  contribution 
from  me,  but  alas,  I  fear  you  have  "come  to  a  goat's 
house  for  wool."  I  don't  believe  Pinkerton  could  find, 


340  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

just    now,   another   rhyme    in   my    entire    anatomy. 
Otherwise  most  gladly  would  I  do  my  level-best  for 
you.    Have  just  finished  a  new  book,  and  must  lie 
down  somewhere  in  the  shade  and  pant. 
As  ever  your  friend, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

After  his  prime,  in  what  he  jokingly  called  "the 
venerable  and  time-honored  epoch"  of  his  career,  Riley 
repeatedly  referred  to  himself  as  the  "homeopathic 
poet."  His  friends  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  but 
there  was  no  doubt  in  his  own  mind.  It  was  anxiety 
over  his  vanishing  youth.  "The  comb  begins  to  pull," 
he  said  once  while  revising  poems  for  a  new  volume. 
"There  is  molasses  in  my  ambrosial  curls.  Not  half 
so  much  fun  to  run  a  lawn  mower  the  last  ten  minutes 
as  when  you  first  take  hold  of  the  machine." 

As  the  sales  of  his  books  grew,  grew  beyond  his 
wildest  fancy,  he  was  beset  by  soft  temptations,  such 
as  ease  and  wealth.  He  realized  that  a  subtle  indolence 
was  stealing  over  him.  Like  Burdette  he  had  reached 
the  age  when  he  exaggerated  difficulties.  "Proofs  of 
the  book  began  to  arrive  Saturday,"  Burdette  wrote  in 
1897,  referring  to  one  of  his  own  volumes.  "As  I 
read  it,  you  know  how  I  wish  I  had  said  it  this  way; 
then  sleep  on  it  and  decide  to  leave  it  as  it  was,  then 
change  it  back;  then  get  disgusted  with  the  whole 
thing;  finally  decide  not  to  publish  the  book;  then 
think  I  might  do  it  under  a  nom  de  plume  so  that  no 
body  would  know  who  wrote  the  truck;  and  at  last  in 
desperation  let  it  go  back  to  the  publisher,  saying, 
Dumb  the  difference,  let  it  go." 

And  it  was  thus  with  Riley  as  he  grew  older.  Poems 
were  sent  to  magazines  and  occasionally  a  book  slipped 


BUILDING  BOOKS  341 

from  his  study  without  receiving  the  attention  that 
he  had  given  his  work  in  former  years.  And  so  he 
became  a  target  for  the  critic.  "He  has  bound  the 
poems  together  in  a  book,"  wrote  one, — "the  pebbles 
and  the  pearls  on  one  string,  and  the  author  seems  to 
have  perverse  affection  for  the  pebbles." 

For  many  years  Riley  aspired  to  build  a  book  (to 
use  his  own  language)  as  a  mason  would  construct  a 
stone  wall,  a  book  that  would  stand  true  from  the  first 
and  need  no  rebuilding.  He  never  realized  that 
dream.  To  the  last,  portions  of  the  wall,  and  once 
the  whole  structure  had  to  be  torn  down  and  rebuilt. 

Riley  was  an  indefatigable  worker.  "Simply  it  is 
not  my  fate,"  he  wrote  Major  Charles  Holstein,  "ever 
to  have  any  real  genuine  rest  or  leisure  in  this  world. 
I  have  been  noticing  this  fatality  for  many  a  long 
year;  and  while  you  may  smile  at  this  'fool-fancy*  of 
mine,  as  it  is  generally  believed  to  be,  none  the  less  I 
know  it  is  most  unwavering  and  relentless  fact.  In 
present  instance  it  is  coming  in  the  form  of  setting  me 
straight  on  with  still  another  book — the  beginning  of 
which,  thank  God!  and  outline,  has  been  compassed 
long  ago,  so  that  all  that  remains  of  the  task  is  the 
filling  in.  And  since  I  am  in  the  spirit  and  frame  of 
mind,  I  feel  I  must  do  it  now,  though  it  will  cost  me 
all  the  interval  allowed  me  for  the  Holidays.  But  my 
health  and  heroism  are  both  equal  to  it,  and  so  I  square 
my  jaws.  Simply  I  just  am  not  going  to  fight  fate 
any  more — nor  am  I  going  to  be  ungrateful  for  my 
seeming  trials  and  deprivations.  They  are  all  bless 
ings  in  disguise.  Has  not  some  old  poet-saint  assev 
erated,  under  oath  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago, 
that 


342  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"  'The  clouds  we  so  much  dread 

Are  big  with  mercy  and  will  break 
In  blessings  on  our  head'? 

Anyway  I  am  going  cheerfully  to  take  his  word  for  it; 
and  right  here  and  now  and  straight  onward  till  the 
book  is  done,  accept  the  blessed  inevitable." 

Working  at  night  he  kept  his  secretary  awake  with 
such  remarks  as  these : 

"A  man  of  average  endowment  could  write  books  if 
he  would  work  at  it  as  hard  as  the  author  does.  There 
are  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  consider.  For  in 
stance,  there  is  the  title — keep  both  ears  and  eyes  open 
— would  it  have  been  a  good  title  five  years  ago — will 
it  be  a  good  title  ten  years  hence?  It  does  not  require 
much  to  write  a  book,  but  to  name  the  thing,  that 
takes  genius — many  a  title  has  made  a  book  successful 
— I  could  do  a  good  business  creating  titles — the  editor 
wanted  to  change  the  title;  I  told  him  I  would  have 
the  manuscript  returned  before  I  would  change  it. 

"What  a  fearful  thing  it  is  to  be  the  writer  of  a 
bad  book,  Myron  Reed  used  to  tell  me.  The  author  is 
dead  and  sorry  but  what  good  does  sorrow  do?  The 
book  is  loose.  It  is  like  poisoning  the  neighborhood 
well. 

"In  launching  a  book  consider  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  attending  its  voyage.  Whether  on  sea  or  on 
shore,  said  the  old  Tales  of  the  Ocean,  keep  a  good 
lookout  ahead.  An  old  sea  captain  maintained  that  a 
man  has  no  manly  motive  for  facing  dangers  unless  he 
has  well  considered  what  they  are.  That  done,  let  the 
author  commit  himself  and  his  book  to  the  Higher 
Powers. 


BUILDING  BOOKS  343 

"Here  is  a  flaw  for  us  to  whet  our  beaks  upon.  If 
I  were  to  go  through  these  galleys  forty  years  hence  I 
would  find  corrections  to  make.  What  labor  it  takes 
to  make  a  tolerable  book,  and  how  little  the  reader 
knows  about  that.  How  wide  awake  a  man  must  be 
to  judge  quietly  and  wisely  of  merits  and  defects. 

"I  get  some  things  by  reflection.  I  have  considered 
this  book  from  every  standpoint.  I  know  what  I 
think  of  the  book.  I  know  what  the  critics  think  of 
it.  I  know  what  my  relatives  think  of  it.  I  know 
the  opinion  of  good  men  and  the  man  with  a  disease. 
I  know  what  the  halt  and  the  lame  and  the  blind  think 
of  it.  I  know  the  opinions  of  all  these  before  they 
have  seen  the  book. 

"Why  go  on  writing  this  rubbish?  something  seems 
to  say.  Have  I  lost  the  power  of  invention?  I  shall 
not  sleep  to-night — the  book  haunts  me  like  a  ghost. 
I  could  no  more  forget  it  than  Lincoln  could  forget 
his  slaves." 

Thus  the  poet  talked  while  he  worked,  wide-awake 
as  he  approached  the  dawn,  while  the  secretary  re 
pressed  the  heaviness  of  sleep. 

A  barrier  to  bookmaking  was  the  poet's  inability 
to  decide  things.  At  times  this  infirmity  would  block 
proceedings  for  days.  An  instance  was  his  disposition 
of  "The  Old  Settler's  Story."  It  was  a  favorite  sketch, 
the  scaffolding  for  it  having  come  from  an  old  Uncle 
Tommy  at  the  Oakland  Pioneer  Meeting  in  1878.  Its 
conclusion  gave  him  especial  pleasure,  "since,"  he 
said,  "it  wrote  itself." 

But  what  to  do  with  the  story  after  it  had  been 
created — there  was  the  rub.  Ten  years  later  it  ap 
peared  in  Pipes  o'  Pan.  Twenty  years  after,  it  was 


344  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

transferred  to  Neghborly  Poems,  "and  the  Lord  only 
knows  what  I  would  do  with  it,"  said  Riley,  "should 
I  return  some  day  to  make  a  call  on  posterity." 

The  summer  season  was  the  poet's  favorite  time  for 
bookmaking.  "I  am  always  cold  in  winter,"  he  said. 
"Having  a  very  thin  skin  and  only  about  two  ounces 
of  blood  in  my  system  and  that  in  a  very  thin  state, 
I  feel  the  cold  all  the  time.  When  at  home  in  the 
summer  and  hard  at  work  on  a  book  while  others  are 
at  the  seashore,  striving  for  enjoyment,  I  am  comfort 
able.  I  can  enjoy  life  as  well  as  the  rest  if  I  can  only 
work  while  the  perspiration  is  rolling  down  my  brow 
and  I  am  glowing  generally." 

When  interviewed,  the  poet  often  remarked  that  he 
was  not  a  literary  man,  yet  he  freely  expressed  him 
self  on  questions  of  literature.  He  said  things  about 
"the  damphool  author,"  and  they  were  usually  caustic. 
He  was  not  seriously  alarmed  over  what  seemed  to  be 
the  degeneration  of  the  public  taste,  the  delight  of  the 
masses  in  light,  faddish  books,  the  belief  that  com 
mercialism  was  having  a  baneful  influence,  and  so 
forth.  The  masses  might  wabble  but  the  people  make 
literature;  ultimately  they  were  bound  to  be  right. 
The  author  should  study  to  please  and  benefit  them — 
that  is  what  he  writes  for.  Often  an  author  writes 
his  first  book  to  please  himself — mistake  number  one. 
Then  he  writes  a  book  to  please  the  critics,  the  fellows 
that  had  jumped  on  his  first  book — mistake  number 
two.  Then  the  author,  if  he  is  discerning,  writes  a 
book  to  please  the  masses,  and  he  finds  favor  with  the 
public.  But  he  can  not  do  that  unless  he  mingles 
with  the  people  and  finds  out  what  they  want.  He 
can  not  do  it  by  standing  aloof;  he  can  not  do  it  by 


BUILDING  BOOKS  345 

getting  "chesty."  The  writer  must  not  be  too  good 
for  human  nature  and  human  provender.  He  must 
live  with  the  people  to  be  a  leader  of  the  people. 

Occasionally  there  was  a  call  from  the  masses,  which 
he  answered  reluctantly.  An  instance  was  his  sonnet, 
"The  Assassin,"  written  after  the  death  of  President 
Garfield.  "It  was  prompted  I  suppose  by  fire  or 
brimstone,"  he  said,  "for  I  remember,  in  making  an 
illustration  for  it,  that  I  chewed  the  end  of  a  match, 
dipped  it  in  ink,  and  made  plumes  of  smoke  rising 
from  the  field  of  retribution,  as  if  the  elements  were 
breathing  out  vengeance  with  Justice.  But  it  was 
unlike  me  to  write  it,  although  there  was  a  popular 
call  for  it.  I  remember  that  I  delayed  sending  it  to 
the  Journal.  Always  I  have  been  distinctly  ashamed 
of  it." 

After  Rhymes  of  Childhood,  the  poet,  with  rare  ex 
ceptions,  appeared  in  book  form  yearly  to  the  end  of 
his  publication  period.  His  publishers,  then  the 
Bowen-Merrill  Company,  now  the  Bobbs-Merrill  Com 
pany  of  Indianapolis,  continued  their  old-time  fealty. 
As  Riley  put  it,  they  kept  the  ball  rolling  till  his  glad 
day  came  "wid  de  blowin'  er  de  bugles  and  de  bangin' 
er  de  drums."  In  order  of  time  the  volumes  were 
Neghborly  Poems,  Sketches  in  Prose,  Flying  Islands 
of  the  Night,  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks, 
Armazindy,  Poems  Here  at  Home,  A  Child-World ', 
Rubaiyat  of  Doc  Sifers,  Home-Folks,  The  Book  of  Joy 
ous  Children,  His  Pa's  Romance,  and  Morning.  In 
1897  the  Homestead  Edition,  sold  by  subscription  only, 
was  published,  through  arrangements  with  the  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Company,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Later 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company  published  the  Biograph- 


346  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

leal  Edition  and  still  later  the  Memorial  Edition,  the 
complete  set  of  the  poet's  works  in  ten  volumes. 
Poems  Here  at  Home,  and  The  Rubaiyat  of  Doc 
Sifers  were  originally  published  by  the  Century  Com 
pany. 

The  initial  poem  in  Armazindy,  illustrated  by  Will 
Vawter  in  the  Indianapolis  Journal,  September,  1893, 
marks  the  beginning  of  the  poet's  good  fortune  with 
his  artist,  whose  illustrations  have  been  coextensive 
with  the  poet's  fame.  The  pictures  not  only  relate  to 
the  text  but  illuminate  it,  which  can  not  be  said  of 
some  illustrations  by  other  artists.  Like  the  poet, 
Vawter  was  reared  in  Greenfield.  He  knows  the  value 
of  sunshine  and  rainy  days,  and  the  lesson  of  homely, 
human  sorrows.  "Simply  you  are  divinely  ordained 
to  succeed,"  Riley  wrote  him  at  an  early  day.  "As  I 
forecast  so  you  must  prove.'9  The  artist  did  succeed. 
His  pictures  are  redolent  with  the  good  old-fashioned 
days  and  ways ;  he  has  the  heart-touch. 

The  end  of  the  'nineties  marked  the  beginning  of  a 
series  of  illustrated  books,  which  were  received  enthu 
siastically  by  the  book  trade  and  the  Riley  public. 
Years  before,  Afterwhiles  and  Rhymes  of  Childhood 
had  established  the  reputation  of  the  poet;  so  that  it 
may  be  said  that  magazine  attention  to  Riley  and 
magazine  publication  of  his  poems  followed,  for  the 
most  part,  the  reception  of  his  books.  The  milestones 
in  his  popularity  were  marked  by  the  appearance 
of  the  illustrated  books — Child  Rhymes  and  Farm 
Rhymes  and  others  in  the  Deer  Creek  volumes  illus 
trated  by  Vawter,  the  crowning  success  being  An  Old 
Sweetheart  of  Mine  in  1902,  illustrated  by  Howard 
Chandler  Christy.  This  had  a  tremendous  vogue  and 


THE  POET  IN  1896 


AT  THE  HANCOCK  COUNTY  FAIR,  1865,  A  MEMORY  or  EARLY  DAYS  IN 
THE  POET'S  CHILD- WORLD 


BUILDING  BOOKS  347 

was  followed  with  equal  success  by  Out  to  Old  Aunt 
Mary's,  Home  Again  with  Me,  The  Girl  I  Loved,  and 
other  titles  in  the  Christy-Riley  series. 

No  mention  of  the  illustrated  books  should  be  made, 
no  matter  how  brief,  without  a  special  word  of  praise 
for  the  Franklin  Booth  Edition  of  The  Flying  Islands 
of  the  Night.  Mr.  Booth's  paintings,  in  originality  of 
conception  and  beauty  of  color,  rank  with  any  similar 
work  ever  done  in  this  country,  and  did  much  to  bring 
this  never  fully  appreciated  poem  to  the  better  atten 
tion  of  Riley  admirers. 

The  success  of  the  illustrated  books  verified  the 
faith  of  the  publishers  in  the  poet  and  his  work.  At 
an  early  date  the  president  of  the  organization,  Wil 
liam  C.  Bobbs,  then  one  of  the  company's  salesmen, 
had  found  the  poet's  first  little  volume  in  a  corner 
book  store  at  Liberty,  Indiana,  and  had  predicted  for 
him  and  his  poems  a  glorious  future.  That  was  the 
day  of  small  things.  The  illustrated  works,  due  chiefly 
to  the  unfailing  faith  and  efforts  of  the  publishing 
house,  distinguished  the  day  of  prosperity. 

In  the  early  book  ventures  Dan  Paine's  counsel  was 
always  available.  He  was  aware  of  what  many  other 
friends  were  not,  that  Riley  had  written  great  poems 
in  his  youth.  "Lyric  poets,"  he  affirmed,  "do  their 
greatest  work  before  they  are  thirty-five."  Repeat 
edly,  when  Riley  was  preparing  book  manuscripts 
Paine  pointed  with  pride  to  the  past.  "Back  there  in 
your  dreamy  days,"  he  once  said,  "are  'Dot  Leedle 
Boy* — 'A  Country  Pathway' — 'Farmer  Whipple' — 
Tom  Van  Arden'— 'August'— The  Iron  Horse'— 
'Watches  of  the  Night'— 'Her  Beautiful  Eyes'— and 
other  country  paper  favorites.  Roll  them  up  in 


348  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

dreams  together  and  make  a  book/'  Riley  did  so,  and 
thus  Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks  began  its  pil 
grimage  to  family  bookshelves. 

Each  book  had  its  own  story, — joys,  difficulties,  and 
provocations  attending  its  construction.  What  befell 
while  the  poet  worked  on  A  Child-World  suggests  his 
experience  with  other  volumes.  "The  book  is  round 
ing  into  completion,  and  very  soon  I  shall  hand  it  to 
the  printers,"  he  wrote  Frank  M.  Nye  of  Minneapolis. 
"Meanwhile  I  am  whettin'  my  hind  feet  on  the  gravel 
of  the  sidewalk  till  printers  change  my  line  of  servi 
tude  by  snowing  me  under  with  proof  sheets."  Later, 
followed  this  letter  to  Louise  Chandler  Moulton  of 
Boston : 

Indianapolis,  August  18,  1896. 
My  dear  friend : 

This  long  silence  goes  out  to  you,  even  as  a  long 
captive  songster's — free  once  more  in  his  native  wood 
land  haunts,  with  his  rapturous  breast  again  safe  in 
the  shadow  of  the  leaves,  and  his  grateful  beak  song- 
wide  with  his  first  inspiration. 

The  occasion  of  my  wide-spread  delinquency  is,  of 
course,  another  book — which  same  headstrong  thing 
has  insisted  upon  rhyming,  chiming  and  subliming 
itself  to  the  other  side  of  200  pages.  And  here,  seeing 
it  at  last  in  type,  I'm  wondering,  thus  belatedly,  who 
else'll  want  to  wade  so  vast  a  width  of  all  unbroken 
verse.  And  will  you  venture,  sailor-like,  across  it 
when  I  send  you  first  copy  of  it? 

As  always  your  grateful  and  abiding  friend, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

The  characters  in  A  Child-World  were  real  char 
acters,  the  scenes  typical  scenes  of  the  early  day  and 
locality.  "Exactly  that,"  said  Riley,  "but  something 


BUILDING  BOOKS  349 

more  than  that.  The  characters  are  people  that  I 
knew  when  a  child.  Several  stories  were  real  stories 
told  by  children  of  that  day.  The  book  appeals  to  me, 
because  of  its  simplicity.  We  had  comparatively  little 
opportunity  for  entertainment  in  my  town  in  those 
days;  all  we  had  we  had  to  make  first-hand.  Nor 
was  this  a  bad  thing,  this  limited  environment,  and 
even  a  fair  acquaintance  with  poverty,  for  it  makes 
people  self-reliant  and  keeps  them  always  kindly  and 
most  cheeringly  sympathetic." 

The  book  contained  the  popular  "Bear  Story,"  which 
had  originated  with  the  poet's  little  brother,  Humboldt 
Riley.  "It  was  his  creation,  his  one  lone  masterpiece 
in  fiction,"  said  the  poet;  "he  told  it  so  many  times, 
while  we  children  sat  round  the  fireside,  that  he  came 
to  believe  it  and  could  see  no  inconsistencies  in  it. 
On  my  first  trip  away  from  home  (with  the  Standard 
Remedy  vendor)  I  reproduced  it,  thinking  it  might 
be  acceptable  for  a  Christmas  entertainment  when  I 
should  get  back  home.  So  it  turned  out  to  be.  Later 
it  appeared  to  be  pleasing  to  audiences  generally, 
especially  to  children,  and  when  I  wanted  to  retire  it 
I  could  not.  So  I  incorporated  it  permanently  in  my 
reading  programs." 

On  the  whole  Riley  had  been  happy  while  working 
on  this  new  volume.  He  had  been  in  his  world — had 
been  seeking  the  pictures  that  hung  on  the  walls  of 
his  fancy  in  his  barefoot  days.  It  had  been  his  habit 
to  sleep  with  childhood  books  under  his  pillow.  One 
night  while  at  work  on  The  Book  of  Joyous  Children 
he  recalled  the  scene  in  Dickens'  story  of  the  Golden 
Mary,  the  little  band  of  passengers  adrift  in  the  long 
boat  on  the  wide  ocean,  and  the  lamentation  of  the  old 


350  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

man  who  pinned  his  faith  to  the  child.  "Our  sins 
will  sink  us,"  Riley  repeated;  "we  shall  founder  and 
go  to  the  devil  when  we  have  no  innocent  child  to  bear 
us  up."  There  might  be  fair  mornings  and  broad 
fields  of  sunlight  on  the  waves,  but  without  the  love 
and  innocence  of  children  the  voyage  of  life  would  be 
in  vain.  In  all  his  books  there  were  pages  for  the 
children.  Half  of  Armazindy  was  given  over  to 
"Make-Believe  and  Child-Play,"  ending  with  the  little 
"Envoy"— 

"When  but  a  little  boy,  it  seemed 

My  dearest  rapture  ran 
In  fancy  ever,  when  I  dreamed 
I  was  a  man — a  man! 

"Now — sad  perversity! — my  theme 

Of  rarest,  purest  joy 
Is  when,  in  fancy  blest,  I  dream 
I  am  a  little  boy." 

Simultaneously  with  its  appearance  in  America,  A 
Child-World  was  published  in  London.  The  Riley 
audience  had  been  growing  in  England  since  the  ad 
vent  of  Afterwhiles,  but  chiefly  since  his  visit  to  "a 
bright  little  island,"  as  he  spoke  of  it  to  English 
friends,  "a  show-fight  little  island,  and  full  of  merit 
of  all  sorts,  but  not  the  whole  round  world."  British 
ers  had  been  pleased  with  his  frankness  as  well  as 
with  his  verse. 

Years  before,  while  on  the  road  with  Nye,  the  book 
business  had  seemed  like  a  leap  in  the  dark.  A  Lon 
don  publisher  had  asked  why  he  did  not  put  the  sale 
of  his  books  in  the  hands  of  somebody  in  England  who 


BUILDING  BOOKS  351 

.'  • 

would  push  them  properly.  "Simply/*  the  poet 
answered,  "because  time  out  of  mind  the  author  is  in 
the  hands  of  his  publisher  and  his  publisher  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  Devil.  Hundreds  of  would-be  consumers 
of  my  books  go  hungry  along  with  me  simply  because 
one  publisher  will  not  publish  them  and  another  will. 
At  least  that's  the  way  it  appears  to  a  man  up  a  tree. 
My  sympathy  drifts  ever  to  the  intrepid  firm  here  in 
America  that  print  my  books,  knowing  no  other  house 
in  the  world  will  so  courteously  handle  them.  My 
publishers  here,  are  year  after  year  bravely  bringing 
out  another  volume  'by  the  same  author'  and  plugging 
along  as  best  they  can — learning  to  labor  and  to  wait." 

Much  more  confident  was  the  tone  of  his  letters  the 
year  he  published  A  Child-World.  Prior  to  that  date 
he  had  sent  by  request  a  set  of  his  books  to  Charles  A. 
Dana,  his  old-time  sponsor  and  ally  of  the  New  York 
Sun.  The  Sun  had  given  the  poet  a  full-page  review. 
"Here  evidently  is  a  man,"  said  the  reviewer,  "who 
would  have  felt  the  impulse  to  speak  tunefully  and  to 
touch  the  springs  of  humor  and  pathos  had  he  lived 
before  the  invention  of  alphabets.  In  the  absence  of 
books,  the  lessons  to  be  drawn  from  nature  and  from 
human  life  would  have  sufficed.  With  his  own  hands 
he  has  garnered  his  knowledge  of  the  outer  and  of  the 
inner  world." 

The  editor  himself  however  had  been  to  the  poet  the 
chief  source  of  delight  in  a  personal  letter  dated 

The  Sunt  New  York,  March  15,  1894. 
Dear  Mr.  Riley: 

By  some  accident  through  which  the  package  was 
misplaced  in  this  office,  it  is  only  to-day  that  I  have 


352  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

received  the  set  of  your  works  sent  to  me  on  the  24th 
ult.  But  I  do  not  receive  them  with  any  less  pleasure 
on  that  account;  and  I  am  especially  delighted  with 
the  beautiful  binding:  which  forms  an  outward  decora 
tion  for  the  genius  of  the  contents.  I  congratulate 
you  most  heartily  in  a  literary  success  which  has  had 
no  parallel  in  my  day ;  and  I  remain  as  ever, 

Most  sincerely  and  faithfully  yours, 
CHARLES  A.  DANA. 

With  the  passing  of  the  years  came  many  letters 
from  England,  one  from  the  author  of  Beside  the 
Bonnie  Brier  Bush,  which  Riley  said  gladdened  the 
heart  as  orchard  bloom  in  May. 

Sefton  Park  Church,  Liverpool. 
17  Croxteth  Road, 
8th  October,  1900. 
Dear  Whitcomb  Riley: 

My  return  to  work  this  autumn  was  made  delight 
ful  and  the  sorrow  of  a  countryman  in  leaving  wood 
and  water  for  the  City  was  lifted  by  the  delight  of 
finding  your  works  upon  my  table  and  reading  your 
name  in  each  volume. 

Many  an  evening  this  winter  after  the  drudgery  of 
the  day  is  over  I  will  go  where  the  snow  is  lying  pure 
upon  the  hills  and  see  the  Glen  again  at  the  touch  of  a 
fairy  wand.  And  amid  the  drudgery  the  beautiful 
and  tender  thoughts  of  one  of  America's  truest  poets 
will  visit  my  heart. 

Believe  me,  with  every  sentiment  of  admiration  and 
regard, 

Yours  faithfully, 

JOHN  WATSON. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN 

AS  to  patriotism  the  poet  felt  "the  glory  and 
might  of  his  country  throbbing  in  every  pulsa 
tion  of  his  heart."  He  was  an  ardent  lover 
of  his  country  and  a  firm  believer  in  its  future.  Few 
things  gave  him  more  pleasure  than  to  participate  in 
some  patriotic  exercises,  but  in  so  doing  he  never 
sought  a  prominent  place.  Let  the  statesmen,  the 
orators  and  the  warriors  sit  in  the  front  row.  He, 
as  he  phrased  it  at  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee  Ban 
quet,  was  "an  humble  citizen,  a  mere  civilian,"  con 
tent  to  contribute  his  mite  in  a  modest  manner. 
Nevertheless,  if  applause  is  a  measure  of  merit,  it 
turned  out  many  times  that  his  performance  was  the 
most  conspicuous  feature  on  the  program. 

His  patriotic  fervor  originated  in  the  dark  days  of 
his  country's  progress,  days  now  rich  in  memory,  as 
he  was  fond  of  saying;  days  when  no  one  knew 
whether  the  Union  would  survive,  the  "days  when  the 
Old  Band  swept  musically  to  the  front,"  he  said,  "and 
I  read  A  Man  without  a  Country." 

"I  learned  my  lesson  between  the  fall  of  Sumter 
and  the  fall  of  Richmond,"  he  continued.  "My  school 
of  instruction  was  a  series  of  happenings  in  my  native 
town."  Quaintly  he  undervalued  the  place — 

353 


354  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

"A  little  old  town  in  the  days  long  done 
Of  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty-One, 
In  the  April  lull  of  a  storm  that  burst — 
Launched  on  the  flag  at  Sumter  first: 
A  little  old  town  of  the  days  long  done, 
When  the  shoe-shop,  tavern,  and  store  were  one; 
And  the  one  'town  hall'  was  the  ware-room,  where 
The  Band-Boys  met  and  the  dances  wTere: 
A  little  old  town  where  the  stranger  found 
Little  of  welcome  waiting  round — 
Especially  were  his  business  known 
As  confined  to  himself  alone." 

"Our  little  town,  like  every  other  village  and  every 
metropolis  throughout  the  country  at  that  time,"  he 
wrote  in  his  sketch,  "Mary  Alice  Smith,"  "was,  to  the 
children  at  least,  a  scene  of  continuous  holiday  and 
carnival.  The  nation's  heart  was  palpitating  with 
the  feverish  pulse  of  war,  and  already  the  still  half- 
frozen  clods  of  the  common  highway  were  beaten  into 
frosty  dust  by  the  tread  of  marshalled  men,  and  the 
shrill  shriek  of  the  fife,  and  the  hoarse  boom  and  jar 
and  rattling  patter  of  the  drums  stirred  every  breast 
with  something  of  that  rapturous  insanity  of  which 
true  patriots  and  heroes  are  made." 

In  those  days  he  learned  and  listened  to  wondrous 
words,  he  said,  that  had  the  sound  of  wind  and  the 
voice  of  waters — and  sometimes,  boy  though  he  was, 
he  repeated  these  wondrous  words.  Early  residents 
of  Greenfield  recall  a  recruiting  day  when,  in  response 
to  requests,  he  mounted  a  goods  box  in  the  street  and 
recited  "Sheridan's  Ride."  "While  listening,"  said  a 
survivor  of  that  time,  "we  heard  the  echoes  of  angry 
guns  far  away,  and  when  the  youth  had  finished,  men 
fell  over  each  other  to  enlist  for  the  war." 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  355 

The  youth  was  not  a  soldier,  but  he  could  chant  the 
praises  of  valor,  and,  when  older,  could  sing  of  the 
soldier  in  "The  Name  of  Old  Glory,"  and  eloquently 
recite  it,  as  he  did  at  the  dedication  of  monuments  on 
the  Shiloh  battle-field  and  elsewhere.  Once  in  his 
famous  days,  a  weekly  paper  printed  one  of  his  mar 
tial  poems.  "The  poem  shows/'  wrote  the  editor  in 
his  comment,  "that  the  poet  in  the  hour  of  his  country's 
need,  would  shoulder  the  musket  and  march  to  the 
front"  "The  editor  did  not  know,"  added  Riley, 
"that  at  the  first  shot  of  a  picket  the  poet  would  run 
like  a  reindeer." 

In  the  closing  days  of  the  war,  scarcely  had  the 
fires  of  one  demonstration  died  out  in  Greenfield  when 
they  were  kindled  for  another.  One  Saturday  after 
noon  in  April  there  was  a  Grand  Mass  Meeting — Rich 
mond  had  fallen — ending  at  night  with  bonfires  in  the 
street  and  a  "monster  conflagration"  on  the  common, 
and  "a  Grand  Hop  by  our  patriotic  ladies"  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  boys'  return  from  the  battle-plains  of  the 
South.  Memories  of  the  "conflagration"  Riley  after 
ward  incorporated  in  an  unpublished  story.  To  the 
end  of  his  career  he  could  ever  hear  the  swelling 
chorus  of  the  village  bells — and  the  men  hurrying 
through  the  streets,  their  long  black  shadows  chasing 
them  toward  the  fire — how  the  wind  whooped  and 
moaned  and  stroked  and  caressed  with  its  wavy  hand, 
the  long  yellow  tresses  of  flame — and  how  it  lashed 
them  into  mad  furious  bursts  of  passion  that  like  dis 
torted  serpents  sullenly  died  away  in  trailing  columns 
of  smoke. 

Swiftly  following  the  surrender  of  Richmond  came 
the  news  from  Appomattox  Court  House.  "The  trans- 


356  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

port  in  Greenfield  the  morning  after  Lee's  surrender," 
said  Riley,  "touched  the  borders  of  lawlessness." 
With  boyish  glee  he  itemized  "ingredients  of  the  con 
fusion" — cider  barrels  brought  from  cellars  and 
opened  on  the  sidewalks — a  little  whisky  mixed  with 
the  cider — -dippers  for  each  barrel — old  wagons  and 
drays  full  of  men  who  were  full  of  cider,  drawn  to 
and  fro  through  the  street — hats  riddled  with  bullets 
when  thrown  in  the  air — young  women  lifted  to  tables 
and  goods  boxes  to  sing  "Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  Are 
Marching" — the  prankish  crowd  catching  the  im 
promptu  spirit  of  the  carnival,  wildly  screaming  and 
leaping  and  singing  in  chorus — such  was  the  scene  the 
poet  remembered.  In  the  absence  of  order,  there  was 
considerable  inconvenience  occasioned  by  revelers 
loading  firearms  and  shooting  paper  wads  into  the 
populace.  Referring  to  a  citizen  thus  disabled,  Riley 
said,  "We  picked  war  news  out  of  his  leg  for  a 
week." 

Always  in  military  as  well  as  civic  matters  the  poet 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  rank  and  file.  Their  faith, 
fortitude,  and  all-absorbing  love  of  country, — what 
were  a  nation  without  them?  "Great  soldiery,  great 
oratory,"  he  once  remarked,  referring  to  the  eloquence 
of  Robert  Ingersoll  at  Indianapolis  in  1876;  "it  was 
the  Grand  Army  men  around  the  speaker,  wildly  wav 
ing  their  hats  in  the  rain,  that  made  the  oration  pos 
sible." 

Always  the  soldier  was  an  inspiring  presence.  It 
mattered  not  that  some  were  listed  among  the  missing 
and  the  dead.  Wherever  there  was  a  reunion  of 
veterans,  the  absent  were  there.  Through  a  period 
of  forty  years  he  was  again  and  again  privileged  to 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  357 

see  the  "great  remnant"  of  Indiana's  250,000  soldier 
boys  march  around  Monument  Place,  Indianapolis,  in 
commemoration  of  some  heroic  event.  Always  it 
seemed  to  Riley  that  shoulder-to-shoulder  with  those 
who  marched  were  the  spirits  of  those  "whose  dust 
we  have  covered  with  flowers,"  and  in  his  latter  years, 
the  invisible  army  trooping  through  the  streets  vastly 
outnumbered  the  visible.  Of  the  invisible  army  he 
sang  in  "Soldiers  Here  To-Day" — 

"Soldiers  and  saviors  of  the  homes  we  love; 
Heroes  and  patriots  who  marched  away, 
And  who  marched  back,  and  who  marched  on  above — 
All — all  are  here  to-day! 

"Here — by  the  stars  that  bloom  in  fields  of  blue, 
And  by  the  bird  above  with  shielding  wings ; 
And  by  the  flag  that  floats  out  over  you, 
With  silken  beckonings — 

"In  fancy  all  are  here.     The  night  is  o'er, 

And  through  dissolving  mists  the  morning  gleams ; 
And  clustered  round  their  hearths  we  see  once  more 
The  heroes  of  our  dreams. 

"A  bloom  of  happiness  in  every  cheek — 

A  thrill  of  tingling  joy  in  every  vein — 
In  every  soul  a  rapture  they  will  seek 
In  Heaven,  and  find  again !" 

On  many  historic  occasions  in  his  elderly  days,  the 
poet  read  original  poems — tributes  to  presidents  and 
the  commanders  of  armies,  such  as  "The  Home  Voy 
age"  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Henry  W.  Lawton  statue 
in  Indianapolis,  and  "William  McKinley"  at  the  dedi 
cation  of  the  McKinley  Memorial  at  Canton,  Ohio.  On 
each  occasion  President  Roosevelt  was  the  orator  of 


358  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  day,  both  president  and  poet  spoke  to  immense 
throngs,  and  both  were  greeted  with  mighty  cheers. 
Great  as  these  and  like  occasions  were,  the  poems 
composed  for  them  did  not  measure  up  to  the  heights 
of  the  poet's  genius  when  his  heart  was  on  fire  and 
the  plain  soldier  was  his  theme. 

Sympathizing  with  the  man  in  the  ranks,  it  was 
quite  fitting  that  the  poet  should  respond  to  the  toast, 
"The  Common  Patriot,"  at  the  banquet  of  the  Society 
of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee,  in  Chicago,  Thursday 
night,  October  8,  1891 — all  in  all,  the  most  significant 
effort  of  his  life,  on  a  patriotic  program. 

For  two  days  the  city  had  been  a  living  panorama 
of  patriotic  fervor.  Wednesday,  the  poet's  birthday, 
one  of  the  most  imposing  pageants  ever  seen  in  the 
West  had  passed  through  the  city's  streets.  In  the 
afternoon,  one  hundred  thousand  people  had  witnessed 
in  Lincoln  Park  the  unveiling  of  the  heroic  statue  of 
General  Grant,  one  of  the  largest  equestrian  castings 
ever  made  in  America.  "Like  a  Giant  Hero  in  the 
Sky,"  the  poet  remarked  after  the  unveiling,  "it  stands 
with  face  toward  the  morning." 

The  banquet,  in  the  "spacious  dining  hall"  of  the 
Palmer  House,  was  the  grand  finale  to  the  two-days' 
celebration,  "the  largest  course-dinner,"  it  was  said, 
"ever  given  in  Chicago."  The  feast  of  eloquence 
rivaled  that  in  the  never-to-be-forgotten  banquet  given 
to  the  "Old  Commander"  in  the  same  city,  on  his  re 
turn  from  his  trip  around  the  world.  The  very  titles 
of  the  toasts  added  luster  to  the  occasion : 

"General  Ulysses  S.  Grant" Horace  Porter 

"Let  Us  Have  Peace" Henry  Watterson 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  359 

"The  Press  in  the  War  for  the  Union". .Joseph  Medill 

"The  Common  Patriot" James  Whitcomb  Riley 

"The  Late  General  Sherman" Augustus  Jacobson 

"While  the  common  patriot  never  invited,  seems 
never  to  expect,  and  certainly  does  not  require  the 
tribute  such  as  may  be  paid  him  at  the  banquet-board," 
Riley  said  in  part,  "it  is  all  the  more  an  honor,  as  I 
take  it,  when,  by  general  consent  of  the  Army  of  the 
Tennessee,  a  mere  civilian  is  permitted  to  say  some 
thing  of  him.  The  common  patriot! — he  seems  so 
accessible.  A  hero  he  is,  indeed,  forever  within  reach 
and  grasp  and  hand-shake  of  us  all ;  in  constant  touch 
and  hail,  all  unremoved  from  us  by  the  elevated  office 
or  insulated  service  jealously  barring  him  from  us 
with  guns  and  fortress  walls.  The  common  patriot, 
thank  Heaven,  is  left  to  roam  at  large  up  and  down 
the  land  he  glorifies  by  his  presence.  Everybody 
knows  him  familiarly  and  affectionately  by  his  first 
name  or  his  last.  As  there  is  a  type  of  actor  so  ex 
cellent  and  perfect  in  his  art  that  we  cease  entirely 
to  regard  his  great  gift  critically  or  justly  measure 
and  appreciate  his  rare  possession  as  anything  but  the 
most  natural  quality  in  the  world,  likewise  we  have 
this  type  of  patriot,  so  naturally  fitted  to  the  part, 
and  withal  so  natively  endowed  and  capable  and  satis 
factory  in  his  simple  presentation  of  the  character, 
that  we  are  apt  to  overlook  his  very  highest  claims  to 
our  prolonged  applause  and  our  enduring  gratitude. 

"This  is  the  common  patriot,  not  the  exalted  chief 
tain  charging  to  the  front  of  battle  with  his  glittering 
sword  waving  onward  to  the  very  cannon's  mouth,  but 
the  patriot  of  the  advancing  line,  with  shattered  right 
arm  limp  and  useless  at  his  side,  the  old  flag  caught 
and  lifted  with  his  left,  and  the  terrible  'Battle  Hymn 
of  the  Republic'  on  his  lips.  (Applause.) 

"The  common  patriot!  There  are  regiments  of 
them — battalions  and  brigades — vast,  earth-shaking 
armies!  It  was  the  common  patriot  who  'somewhat 


360  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

grimly  smiled*  a  smile  400,000  strong !  He  it  was,  in 
rallying  legions  with  the  flag  overhead,  who  received 
his  marching  orders  'to  the  sea.'  Nor  is  it  unlikely 
that  the  common  patriot,  aside  from  his  God-given 
tendencies,  has  often  found  his  model  in  such  of  his 
great  generals  as  Grant,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  that 
illustrious  line  of  men  whose  genius  forced  them  on 
to  lead,  even  as  at  the  nation's  head  the  common 
patriot  found  the  type-perfect  in  the  character  of  the 
immortal  Lincoln.  (Applause.) 

"Wherever  we  may  find  this  homely  type  repeated, 
inevitably  we  will  find  a  man  of  commonplace  origin. 
He  was  begotten  of  the  love  of  home  and  the  shriek, 
and  thump,  and  rattle  of  a  sheepskin  band.  In  the 
political  processions  of  his  earliest  youth  the  old  flag, 
glittering  and  fluttering  in  the  sunshine  and  the  wind, 
seemed  always  to  be  laughing,  as  though  very  much 
tickled  over  something  it  had  promised  on  its  honor 
not  to  tell.  (Such,  the  poet  recalled,  was  his  own 
vision  of  it  the  morning  after  Lee's  surrender.)  Its 
stars  laughed,  and  its  stripes  laughed.  Its  red,  white, 
and  blue  caught  the  patriot's  own  breath  as  he  ran 
from  his  mother's  arms  and  shouted  after  it.  In 
stinctively  he  loved  it  at  first  sight,  even  as  his  fore 
fathers  had  before  him,  and  as  his  children  will  after 
him.  Therefore  is  it  that  he  was  raised  to  be  an 
element  of  the  country's  life  and  perpetuity  as  natural 
as  the  life  principle  of  the  republic." 

After  prefacing  the  lines  with  an  old  farm  scene, 
the  poet  closed  his  tribute  with  "Decoration  Day  on 
the  Place,"  a  poem  revamped  for  the  banquet,  but 
originally  written  and  attributed  to  the  common 
patriot,  "Benjamin  F.  Johnson  of  Boone."  The  cen 
tral  thought  in  the  poem — every  day  on  earth  is  the 
soldier's  decoration  day — was  received  with  loud  ac 
claim.  The  veterans  of  the  Tennessee  Army  glimpsed 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  361 

through    tears    the    patriot's    resting    place    in    the 
orchard — 

"And  the  flag  he  died  for,  smiling  and  rippling  in  the 

breeze 
Above  his  grave,  and  over  that,  the  robin  in  the  trees." 

The  speech,  with  poem,  required  a  half-hour  for 
delivery.  When  the  poet  had  finished,  so  press  re 
ports  testify,  "the  assembly  rose  as  one  man  and 
waved  their  napkins  until  the  vast  space  appeared  like 
a  troubled  sea  with  waving  linen."  The  hurricane  of 
applause  was  the  test  of  the  poet's  power,  "the  only 
test,"  as  Mark  Twain  said  of  Ingersoll's  speech  at  the 
Grant  banquet  in  the  same  hall;  "people  may  shout, 
clap  their  hands,  stamp  and  wave  their  napkins,  but 
none  but  the  master  can  make  them  get  up  on  their 
feet." 

"The  really  great  hit  of  the  evening,"  said  the  Chi 
cago  Inter  Ocean,  editorially,  "was  James  Whitcomb 
Riley's  tribute  to  the  men  who  did  the  actual  fighting. 
There  was  not  a  commonplace  sentence  spoken  by  him, 
and  the  poem  with  which  he  closed  deserves  a  place  in 
the  little  classics  of  American  literature." 

Five  minutes  the  demonstration  lasted.  "When 
and  where,"  guests  asked  one  another,  "had  there 
been  anything  like  that  in  the  history  of  men  of  let 
ters?"  The  storm  of  applause  continuing,  the  poet 
was  compelled  again  and  again  to  bow  his  acknowl 
edgment,  and  at  last,  in  sheer  desperation,  to  recite 
his  popular  poem,  "The  Old  Man  and  Jim." 

Commenting  years  after  on  the  unusual  brilliancy 
of  the  banquet,  Riley  vigorously  protested  against  the 


362  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

verdict  of  the  guests  and  the  press.  "They  permitted 
their  love  and  the  applause  to  bias  their  judgment," 
said  he.  "The  hit  of  the  evening  was  not  made  by 
the  Hoosier  Poet.  That  honor  belonged  to  Henry 
Watterson.  'You  have  heard/  said  Watterson  in  his 
opening  remarks,  'that  the  war  is  over.  I  am  glad 
of  it.  Roses  smell  sweeter  than  gunpowder.'  Noth 
ing  finer  than  that/'  added  Riley,  "has  been  said  since 
Demosthenes.  In  saying  what  he  did  of  Grant  at 
work  on  his  Memoirs,  after  he  had  shouldered  his 
gun  and  fought  for  the  stars  and  bars,  Watterson  may 
justly  be  termed  the  Flower  of  Southern  Chivalry/' 

Said  Watterson  in  closing:  "Grant  was  the  em 
bodiment  of  simplicity,  integrity  and  courage;  every 
inch  a  general,  a  soldier  and  a  man,  but  in  the  cir 
cumstances  of  his  last  illness,  a  figure  of  heroic  pro 
portions  for  the  contemplation  of  the  ages.  I  recall 
nothing  in  history  so  sublime  as  the  spectable  of  that 
brave  spirit,  broken  in  fortune  and  in  health,  with  the 
dread  hand  of  the  dark  angel  clutched  about  his  throat, 
struggling  with  every  breath  to  hold  the  clumsy, 
unfamiliar  weapon  with  which  he  sought  to  wrest 
from  the  jaws  of  death  a  little  something  for  the  sup 
port  of  wife  and  children  when  he  was  gone.  If  he 
had  done  nothing  else,  that  would  have  made  his  exit 
from  the  world  an  immortal  epic!" 

"When  Grant  did  that,"  said  Riley,  "he  was  not 
the  commander  of  armies.  He  was  a  common  patriot 
leaving  an  example  for  civilians  to  emulate." 

Common  patriotism,  the  significance  of  neighbor 
and  neighborhood,  was  the  poet's  theme  when  he  re 
sponded  to  the  toast,  "Our  Guest,"  at  the  reception  to 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  363 

ex-President    Harrison,    given    by    the    Indianapolis 
Commercial  Club  in  April,  1897: 

"The  citizen — the  patriot — the  soldier — the  chief 
tain  in  the  van  of  battle  victory — the  chieftain  still  in 
civil  conquest — all  have  been  enumerated  and  extolled 
by  our  universal  nation — so  paternally  proud  of  such 
a  son.  But  may  there  not  be  fittingly  offered — in 
however  brief  a  way — some  comment  out  of  this  par 
ticular  community,  in  the  grateful  midst  of  which  is 
builded  the  home  of  this  man — our  friend  and  neigh 
bor.  There — that  sounds  exactly  right.  Neighbor. 
Our  neighbor. 

"Like  the  rare  list  of  strong  yet  lovely  words  that, 
of  their  own  pronunciation  seem  to  define  themselves 
— such  as  father,  mother,  home,  country,  flag — the 
simple,  wholesome  name  of  neighbor  affects  us  pleas 
antly  and  always  as  though  we  had  most  accurately 
known  its  fullest  meaning  from  its  first  utterance  in 
our  childish  ears.  To  our  neighbor,  thus,  in  all  neigh 
borly  spirit,  we  address  ourselves  to-night — here  in 
his  chosen  State  and  city,  where  of  his  own  deserving 
in  young  manhood  he  won  welcome,  fixed  his  dwelling 
and  cheerily  took  his  place  and  chance  in  the  common 
rank  and  file  of  his  onward-moving  fellow  citizens. 

"The  details  of  the  trials  of  that  earlier  time  and 
scene  the  young  aspirant  of  to-day,  of  course,  knows 
little  of,  nor  does  that  history,  as  fitfully  chronicled 
by  reminiscent  contributors  to  the  home  papers  evoke 
its  just  measure  of  serious  consideration.  Only  the 
sturdy  and  heroic  participants  themselves  can  realize 
the  import  of  that  earlier  history — only  the  comrades 
of  that  epoch  and  environment — the  old  friends — the 
old  neighbors.  To  them  the  simple  glories  of  that 
primitive  past  yet  exceed  all  its  trials  and  ordeals,  and 
draw  them  into  closer  comradeship  to-day.  To  them 
that  past  is  sacred,  and  as  they  meet,  strike  hands  and 


364  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

fall  into  hearty  discussion  of  the  bygone  years,  it  is 
always  with  warmth  of  interest. 

"In  the  cheeriest,  mirthful  greeting,  there  is  a  minor 
note;  in  the  merriest  twinkle  of  the  eye,  a  certain 
shadowy,  tender,  yet  insistent  threat  of  rain.  It  is 
the  fitting  reverence  remembrance  pays  to  the  youth- 
time  of  that  friendship  now  grown  to  such  ripe  and 
sound  maturity.  So  steadfastly  on  until  this  hour  has 
it  fared  with  our  old  friend  and  neighbor.  Loyally, 
with  the  lapse  of  years  and  the  advent  of  newer 
worthy  claimants  on  that  friendly  interest,  he  has  ever 
extended  it  willingly,  generously  and  helpfully.  He 
has  not  forgotten  his  own  youth — its  struggles  and  its 
needs — and  so  his  unerring  sympathy  has  inspired  in 
the  earnest  young  man  and  student  a  firmer  faith  in 
all  his  brave  resolves,  a  surer  promise  and  fulfillment 
of  his -hopes  and  his  ambitions.  This  most  fortunate 
type  of  the  young  man  is  known  here  and  abroad ;  he 
may  be  found  to-day,  in  the  flush  of  the  attainments 
of  his  hopes  in  life,  still  happily  in  this  pleasant  neigh 
borhood,  or  he  may  be  found  distinguishing  himself 
in  fields  and  scenes  remote,  but  wherever  found  he  is 
ever  blessing  his  stars  that  it  was  in  this  neighbor 
hood  he  was  first  given  his  true  bearings  and  direc 
tions  upon  his  successful  career  and  that  a  true  friend 
and  neighbor  first  recognized  his  worth,  and  reached 
to  him  the  help  of  a  firm  hand,  together  with  the  cheer 
and  Godspeed  that  was  inspiration. 

"This  was,  and  is,  the  beneficent  and  all-pervading 
spirit  of  our  guest  to-night — our  fellow  citizen — the 
always  simple,  unassuming  and  unselfish  member  of  a 
simple  community  so  signally  favored  as  to  do  him 
honor  long  prior  to  that  universal  homage  so  justly 
won  when  he 

'Became  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 
The  center  of  a  world's  desire.' " 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  365 

When  the  day  came  for  the  dedication  of  the 
Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Monument  at  Indianapolis,  May 
15,  1902,  the  poet  came  forward  with  the  dedicatory 
poem,  "The  Soldier" — still,  in  heart  and  voice,  the 
votary  of  the  common  patriot — 

"The  Soldier ! — Why,  the  very  utterance 

Is  mu'sic — as  of  rallying  bugles,  blent  ,   , 

With  blur  of  drums  and  cymbals  and  the  chants 
Of  battle-hymns  that  shake  the  continent." 

The  newspapers  christened  it  "Indiana's  greatest 
day" — a  day  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  Silent  Vic 
tors,  made  impressive  by  a  sunny  blue  sky,  the  historic 
parade  of  battle  flags,  and  the  presence  of  two  hun 
dred  thousand  people  massed  in  the  Monument  Circle 
and  the  streets  approaching  it. 

As  usual  on  such  occasions,  the  approach  of  speakers 
and  distinguished  officials  to  the  platform  was  greeted 
with  outbursts  of  applause.  "Particularly  cordial," 
said  the  press  report,  "was  the  reception  accorded  the 
Hoosier  Poet,  when  his  familiar  form  was  seen  com 
ing  down  the  north  steps  of  the  Monument  to  the 
speakers'  stand." 

After  the  parade,  Governor  Winfield  T.  Durbin  ac 
cepted  the  Monument  for  the  state.  General  Lew 
Wallace  presided,  and  in  their  order  on  the  program 
introduced  former  Secretary  of  State,  John  W.  Foster, 
as  the  orator  of  the  day,  and  James  Whitcomb  Riley 
as  the  poet  of  the  day. 

Advancing  to  the  front  of  the  stand  Riley  first 
saluted  his  fellow  litterateur  and  friend,  General  Wal 
lace.  Then  turning  to  the  sea  of  humanity  before  him 


366  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

he  waved  his  hand  for  silence — and  silence  came,  "a 
hush  over  the  multitude  while  he  read  the  poem  that 
was  in  itself  a  tribute  to  the  singer  and  the  song." 
When  he  had  concluded,  a  storm  of  applause  proved 
once  more  that  there  was  something  in  the  poet's 
voice  that  delighted  the  hearts  of  men. 

"It  is  to  me  a  pleasure  and  a  privilege  to  present  a 
simple  tribute  to  the  soldiers,"  was  the  poet's  first 
word  to  the  multitude.  It  w>as  a  tribute — but  the 
tribute  with  eloquence  of  genius  in  it  was  "A  Monu 
ment  for  the  Soldiers,"  a  poem  first  presented  to  the 
public  in  a  weekly  paper  nearly  twenty  years  before — 
written  in  the  author's  joyous,  bounding  days,  before 
he  was  excessively  concerned  about  the  appearance  of 
his  poems  in  book  form,  when,  as  a  knowing  critic 
said,  "he  did  not  have  to  be  careful  of  the  collocation 
and  cadence  of  words,  when  the  inherent  lilt  and  music 
of  his  lines  took  everybody  captive" : 

"A  Monument  for  the  Soldiers ! 

And  what  will  ye  build  it  of? 
Can  ye  build  it  of  marble,  or  brass,  or  bronze, 

Outlasting  the  Soldiers'  love? 
Can  ye  glorify  it  with  legends 

As  grand  as  their  blood  hath  writ 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  this  land  of  thine 

To  the  outermost  verge  of  it? 

"And  the  answer  came :     We  would  build  it 

Out  of  our  hopes  made  sure, 
And  out  of  our  prayers  and  tears, 

And  out  of  our  faith  secure: 
We  would  build  it  out  of  the  great  white  truths 

Their  death  hath  sanctified, 
And  the  sculptured  forms  of  the  men  in  arms, 

And  their  faces  ere  they  died. 


A  PATRIOTIC  CIVILIAN  367 

"A  monument  for  the  soldiers ! 

Built  of  a  people's  love, 
And  blazoned  and  decked  and  panoplied 

With  the  hearts  ye  build  it  of! 
And  see  that  ye  build  it  stately, 

In  pillar  and  niche  and  gate, 
And  high  in  pose  as  the  souls  of  those 

It  would  commemorate!" 

While  the  tattered  emblems  of  heroic  days,  the  battle 
flags,  were  borne  past  the  reviewing  stand,  Riley  stood 
as  one  enchanted  by  some  beatific  vision.  Those 
near  him,  the  aged  widow  of  Governor  Oliver  P.  Mor 
ton  for  one,  observed  the  light  in  his  countenance.  An 
"invisible  host"  was  marching  by — and  Riley  saw  it. 
Commenting  afterward,  he  explained  that  there  had 
flashed  on  his  mind  a  new  apprehension  of  that  felici 
tous  phrase  in  IngersolPs  "Vision  of  War" — the  seren 
ity  of  death.  ("Earth  may  run  red  with  other  wars — 
they  are  at  peace.  In  the  midst  of  battle,  in  the  roar 
of  conflict,  they  found  the  serenity  of  death") 

A  quarter  of  a  century  before,  this  radiant  orator 
had  spoken  these  words  from  a  platform  on  the  same 
plaza,  a  few  steps  only  from  where  the  poet  was  stand 
ing.  "On  that  day  of  other  days,"  said  Riley,  "the 
clouds  wept — and  well  they  might,  since  men  wept 
tears  of  joy  as  well  as  grief,  for  if  ever  language  of 
man  was  accented  by  an  angel,  it  was  that  day.  My 
day  was  not  a  day  of  weeping.  The  woes  of  the  war 
were  far  away.  I  gazed  into  a  serene  sky,  a  sky  of 
inobscurity,  a  heaven  of  light  and  life  and  love — and 
that  was  the  serenity,  the  inobscurity  of  death.  Death 
was  not  a  mystery — death  was  not  the  Dread  Angel — 
death  was  not  darkness,  not  night." 


368  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Riley  was  ever  unshaken  in  his  belief  in  the  im 
mortality  of  trees  and  flowers  and  friends.  No  mat 
ter  how  all  is  confused  in  our  near-sighted  eyes,  there 
is  a  Paradise — there  is  life  eternal.  Though  our  com 
panions,  our  children,  go  mysteriously  from  us,  they 
are  still  faring  on  in  the  Beyond,  was  his  faith.  Had 
not  Longfellow  assured  us  that  they  were  going  to 
school  where  they  no  longer  need  our  poor  instruc 
tion?  "Alone  at  night,"  Riley  attested,  "I  have  heard 
music  so  sweet,  so  superior  to  all  earthly  harmonies, 
that  it  seems  a  profanation  to  mention  it, — such  music 
as  Ole  Bull  has  been  hearing  since  he  went  to  Para 
dise.  Who  could  look  upon  him  now,  radiant,  eloquent 
with  fancy  and  understanding?  One  of  his  pleasures 
is  to  stroll  back  here  to  give  me  and  other  musicians 
glimpses  of  his  rapture." 

Thus  Riley  was  charmed  with  The  Blue  Bird,  the 
Belgian  poet's  story  of  the  little  brother  and  sister 
roaming  through  the  fairy  world  in  search  of  happi 
ness,  and  finding  it  at  last  in  their  own  hearts  at  home. 
Particularly  he  sanctioned  the  suggestion  that  our 
burial  grounds  are  fairy  gardens  where  birds  sing  and 
flowers  bloom — that  our  soldiers,  our  friends,  though 
departed,  are  still  living. 

"Where  are  the  dead?"  the  little  sister  asked — 
humanity  asks. 

"There  are  no  dead,"  the  brother  answered — and 
that,  Riley  was  assured,  is  the  truth  for  all  ages — the 
only  answer — "There  are  no  dead." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM 

{^^TP^HE  American  stage  lost  a  great  actor  when 

Riley  refused  to  take  the  profession  seriously 

•*•    as  a  life  work,"  remarked  Sir  Henry  Irving, 

after  hearing  the  poet  in  the  New  York  Authors' 

Readings. 

"Riley  was  a  close  observer  from  childhood,"  said 
his  Greenfield  chum,  John  Davis.  "Nothing  ever 
escaped  him.  He  would  wander  around  with  us  boys 
over  there  (pointing  to  the  willows  on  the  banks  of 
Brandy  wine)  and  perhaps  a  stranger  would  come 
along.  Soon  as  he  had  passed  Riley  would  mimic 
him.  It  was  natural  for  the  poet  to  take  his  part  in 
a  play.  He  was  a  great  actor." 

"He  was  a  born  actor,"  said  his  old  Schoolmaster. 
"I  remember  his  acting  in  a  play  called  The  Child  of 
Waterloo,  in  which  he  took  the  character  of  Troubled 
Tom.  He  was  supposed  to  be  the  son  of  a  blacksmith 
left  on  the  battle-field.  He  made  the  character  so 
funny,  made  so  much  out  of  it,  that  it  became  the  star 
part  in  the  play." 

"Henry,  you  and  I  have  been  studying  all  these 
years  how  to  act,  but  here  is  a  young  man  out  of  the 
West,  who  knows  all  we  know  by  nature,"  said  the 
French  actor,  Coquelin  to  Irving,  after  hearing  Riley 
at  the  Savage  Club  in  London — an  exaggeration,  but 
proof,  if  proof  were  necessary,  that  the  poet  was 

369 


370  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

extraordinarily  gifted  as  an  actor.  Few  men  ever 
succeeded  more  superbly  in  entrancing  an  audience, 
in  stealing  away  its  faculties  and  leading  it  captive 
to  his  will.  "Never  any  other  man,"  wrote  Booth 
Tarkington,  "stood  night  after  night  on  stage  or  plat 
form  to  receive  such  solid  roars  of  applause  for  the 
'reading'  of  poems — and  for  himself.  He  did  not 
'read'  his  poems;  he  did  not  'recite'  them,  either;  he 
took  his  whole  body  into  his  hands,  as  it  were,  and  by 
his  wizard  mastery  of  suggestion  left  no  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley  at  all  upon  the  stage;  instead,  the  audi 
ences  saw  and  heard  whatever  the  incomparable 
comedian  wished  them  to  see  and  hear." 

How  did  he  do  it?  No  one  can  tell,  any  more  than 
one  can  explain  why  "the  trumpet  vine  blooms." 
Riley  as  the  Signal  Man  in  Under  the  Gaslight,  or  as 
Adam  Brock  in  the  historical  drama,  Charles  XII,  or 
impersonating  the  old-timer  in  "Griggsby's  Station," 
or  the  elf  child  in  "Little  Orphant  Annie" — what  was 
the  secret  of  his  power?  His  audience  could  not  ex 
plain  it.  Like  the  French  he  possessed  the  gift  of 
managing  minds  by  his  accent  and  the  caress  of  his 
speech,  but  when  that  is  said,  there  was  mystery  still 
about  it. 

Nor  could  the  poet  explain,  and  he  seldom  attempted 
it.  He  sometimes  attributed  it  to  the  character  of 
his  selections.  "A  long  experience,"  said  he,  "has 
taught  me  not  to  be  ambitious  to  instruct  anybody 
from  the  footlights.  An  audience  does  not  want  that, 
but  it  does  want  to  be  cheerfully  entertained.  It 
never  tires  of  simple,  wholesome,  happy  themes. 
Give  it  what  it  desires — here  is  the  secret,  if  there  is 
any  secret  in  it.  Make  things  as  entertaining  to  the 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        371 

audience  as  to  yourself.  An  audience  is  cosmopolitan 
in  character,  a  neighborly  gathering,  all  on  a  level. 
The  rich  are  there,  and  they  are  interested  in  the  poor, 
since  they  came  originally  from  the  ranks  of  those 
who  walk  by  the  wayside.  They  know  as  I  know  that 
the  crude  man  is  generally  moral,  for  Nature  has  just 
let  go  his  hand.  She's  just  been  leading  him  through 
the  dead  leaves  and  the  daisies.  When  I  deal  with 
such  a  man  in  my  readings,  I  give  him  credit  for  every 
virtue ;  but  what  he  does  and  the  way  he  does  it  is  his 
way,  not  mine.  It  is  my  office  to  interpret  him. 

"I  talk  of  the  dear  old  times,"  Riley  continued, 
"when  there  were  no  social  distinctions,  of  pioneer 
homes  and  towns,  where  there  was  a  warm  welcome 
for  all,  just  as  if  all  were  blood  brothers  as  Kipling 
says.  I  muse  or  romp  happily  amid  the  scenes  of  my 
childhood  and  the  paradise  is  promptly  recognized  and 
appreciated  by  my  audience.  The  difficult  thing,  the 
delicate  office,  is  to  know  what  to  choose,  and  when 
to  stop."  The  poet  did  not  say  it,  but  his  program 
truly  answered  both  questions. 

But  the  secret  of  his  success  in  his  reading  was  not 
so  much  the  concern  of  the  people.  What  they  wanted 
was  more  of  it,  and  in  spite  of  Riley's  repeated  re 
solve  to  retire  from  the  platform,  he  continued  to 
please  the  public  in  that  way,  the  public  in  turn  re 
warding  him  with  ovations  and  a  big  bank-account. 
But  never  again  did  he  prolong  the  engagements. 
Once  an  offer  of  five  hundred  dollars  a  night  for  fifty 
nights  was  declined.  Three  or  four  nights  a  week  for 
four  or  five  weeks  was  the  rule,  then  perhaps  a  rest 
for  a  year,  and  sometimes  two  or  three  years,  the 
engagements  being  mostly  confined  to  large  cities  and 


372  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

university  centers.  "My  last  swing  around  the 
track,"  was  his  final  word;  "I  have  pulled  the  check 
string ;  never  again  for  my  money  or  the  gate  money" 
— and  that  was  the  end  of  platf  orming  for  the  Hoosier 
Poet. 

In  1894  Riley's  father  had  died  and  the  poet  had 
purchased  and  restored  the  homestead  at  Greenfield, 
which  the  father  had  lost  by  speculation  soon  after 
the  Civil  War.  From  the  day  of  its  restoration  the 
homestead  became  a  shrine,  and  more  and  more  the 
poet  an  idol.  Although  he  had  climbed  far,  he  had 
not  been  lost  to  the  view  of  old-time  friends  and  neigh 
bors.  Since  the  publication  of  Old-Fashioned  Roses, 
he  had  been  widely  read  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
and  since  his  New  York  appearance  the  demand  for 
him  on  the  platform  had  been  unceasing.  Greenfield 
desired  to  contribute  its  mite  to  the  wide  wave  of 
approval. 

To  face  the  men  and  women  he  had  known  always 
was  a  test  of  the  poet's  courage,  and  from  time  to 
time  invitations  had  been  declined.  But  in  January, 
1896,  having  an  opportunity  to  donate  the  total  re 
ceipts  from  his  reading  to  a  church,  and  the  further 
understanding  that  his  old  Schoolmaster  was  to  assist 
him  in  the  program,  he  yielded  and  one  Tuesday  even 
ing  stepped  from  the  Pan-Handle  Accommodation  to 
find  "a  reception,"  he  said,  "on  a  scale  worthy  the  re 
turn  of  a  prodigal  son."  There  was  no  reception  com 
mittee  except  a  voluntary  one  comprising  the  in 
habitants.  The  platform  was  a  mass  of  people,  and 
back  of  the  station  the  crowd  extended  far  into  the 
muddy  street.  As  he  stepped  from  the  coach  to  the 
platform  he  was  greeted  by  strains  from  the  Old  Band, 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFOBM        373 

the  organization  that  had  been  made  famous  by  his 
verse — the  same  old  band,  though  some  of  its  mem 
bers  were  missing,  that  in  the  war  days  had  played 
"Lily  Dale"  and  "Hazel  Dell,"  music  which  other 
crowds  in  distant  towns  had  heard  many  times  since, 
in  the  poem. 

The  entertainment  was  in  the  old  Masonic  Hall, 
whose  walls  echoed  incidents  of  the  poet's  school-days 
— the  schoolroom,  which  he  had  helped  to  equip  with 
footlights,  scenery  and  other  theatrical  paraphernalia, 
and  in  which  he  had  been  locally  conspicuous  as  an 
actor.  An  hour  before  his  appearance  the  crowd  filled 
the  standing  room  space,  the  wings  of  the  stage,  the 
doorways  and  the  stairway  leading  up  from  the  street. 
Never  before  in  Greenfield  had  there  been  such  enthu 
siasm  over  the  return  of  a  citizen. 

After  some  musical  numbers,  the  poet  stepped  to  the 
footlights.  Addressing  the  audience  as  old-time 
friends  he  said:  "After  an  absence  of  some  length 
and  wanderings  that  have  been  devious,  I  am  deeply 
touched  by  this  cordial  welcome  to  the  place  of  my 
birth.  It  will  always  be  a  dear  old  home  to  me 
because  it  contains  the  best,  the  kindest  and  most  for 
bearing  friends  that  I  have  ever  known  or  am  likely 
to  know.  I  am  moved  also  this  evening  by  finding 
myself  in  the  presence  of  my  old  friend  and  master, 
Captain  Harris.  How  to  thank  you  and  him,  as  I 
thank  my  blessed  stars,  reminds  me  of  an  anecdote, 
as  Mr.  Lincoln  used  to  say." 

Here  the  poet  told  of  a  miner,  an  old  forty-niner, 
who  returned  to  his  native  town  in  the  condition  of 
poverty  that  he  was  when  he  left  it.  He  had  no 
money,  but  he  had  had  plenty  of  experience.  He  had 


374  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

been  offered  a  quarter-section  of  fine  California  land, 
with  fruit  trees,  and  springs,  and  a  vein  of  gold 
running  through  it — all  this  for  a  pair  of  boots,  and 
he  had  not  bought  it  because  he  did  not  have  the 
boots.  "So  it  is  with  my  thanks,"  continued  the  poet. 
"I  do  not  have  them,  at  least  I  have  not  language  in 
which  to  express  them.  I  have  in  mind  a  poem  which 
found  its  fundamental  principles  in  this  town.  Many 
of  you  will  recall  our  old  band — the  old  Saxhorn  Band. 
I  want  you  to  fancy  the  speaker  is  an  old  resident  of 
Greenfield,  who  has  moved  away,  and  after  many  years 
has  returned." 

Then,  with  an  artless  look  at  the  orchestra,  where 
sat  the  few  surviving  members  of  the  old  organiza 
tion,  he  recited  the  poem  with  the  well-known  refrain 
— "I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play."  At  its  con 
clusion  the  applause  was  so  prolonged  that  a  citizen 
arose  in  the  audience  and  asked  for  silence,  remind 
ing  the  people  that  they  were  in  an  old  building,  and 
should  the  applause  be  too  noisy  the  floor  might  col 
lapse. 

Riley  made  no  attempt  to  leave  the  stage,  bowing 
his  acknowledgments.  "There  is  reminiscence  for  us 
all,"  he  said  when  silence  had  been  restored,  "in  an 
old  town  and  country  sketch,  which  attempts  to  pic 
ture  two  barefoot  boys,  who  had  an  old  aunt  in  the 
country  whom  they  used  to  visit — two  brothers,  one, 
in  his  declining  years,  writing  the  other,  who  had 
moved  to  the  Far  West — 

"Wasn't  it  pleasant,  0  brother  mine, 
In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 
Of  youth — when  the  Saturday's  chores  were  through, 


In  possession  of  The  John  Herron  Art  Institute,  Indianapolis 

FROM  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  POET  BY  JOHN  S.  SARGENT 


TRAVELEKS'  REST,  THE  TAVEKN  ON  THE  OLD  NATIONAL  ROAD, 
PHILADELPHIA,  INDIANA — 1850 — A  MEMORY 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        375 

And  the  'Sunday's  wood'  in  the  kitchen,  too, 
And  we  went  visiting,  'me  and  you/ 

Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's?" 

Then  came  "The  Lily-Bud,"  which,  perfect  as  it 
was,  his  audience  declared  was  not  a  whit  superior  to 
his  rendition  of  it  in  the  old  town  twenty  years  before. 
Although  the  poem  was  not  his  own,  he  had  so  "Riley- 
ized"  it  that  it  seemed  his  own. 

And  so  followed  other  familiar  selections,  among 
them  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine,"  which  he  read 
with  such  feeling  that  the  "Golden  Girl,  a  bright  vision 
to  us  all,"  said  one  of  his  hearers,  "seemed  to  step 
out  on  the  stage  and  lean  over  his  shoulder  to  kiss  him 
on  the  sly  for  the  sentiment." 

In  October,  1896,  Riley  again  answered  the  call 
from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  appearing  in  Pueblo, 
Greeley,  Colorado  Springs  and  Denver.  But  the  sum 
mit  of  interest  for  the  poet  in  that  direction  was 
Myron  Reed,  who,  living  in  Denver,  had  appealed 
annually  to  his  friend  for  a  visit,  since  their  voyage 
together  to  England.  "From  our  youth,"  said  Riley, 
"we  were  voyagers  on  the  deep,  the  ocean  of  life 
(which  probably  accounts  for  my  chimerical  fancies 
since  seamen  are  prone  to  be  superstitious) .  We  kept 
our  lamp  blazing  in  the  binnacle.  We  felt  the  sea-mist 
on  our  brows  and  the  surging  waters  against  the 
prow.  There  was  something  in  Reed's  presence  that 
gave  me  strength.  He  was  familiar  with  flinty  up-hill 
ways,  and  the  dangers  of  the  deep,  and  the  cries  of 
drowning  men.  He  was  always  the  good  Samaritan 
to  those  whose  lot  in  life  had  not  been  happily  cast. 
He  had  a  genius  for  sympathy.  He  kept  an  eye  out 


376  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

for  sea-tossed  pilgrims.  Thus  his  love  in  the  early 
days  for  me." 

"Where  is  your  trunk?"  asked  Reed  when  Riley 
reached  the  mountains. 

"In  Lockerbie  Street,"  was  the  answer.  "Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  when  I  travel  with  a  trunk,  the  thing 
is  lost.  Recently,  I  discovered  that  my  friends  who 
have  'gone  beyond  the  line*  are  having  fun  with  me 
at  my  expense.  Since  crossing  the  divide  Nye  has 
been  steering  me  into  wrong  trains  and  smiling  about 
it.  So  I  burden  myself  no  more  with  heavy  baggage. 
If  I  travel  with  a  trunk  I  am  haunted  with  the  fear 
that  it  will  be  lost.  I  go  about  the  country  with  a 
grip,  and  I  keep  a  tenacious  hold  on  it  all  day,  but  I 
never  feel  quite  safe  about  it  at  night.  If  there  is 
ever  a  horrible  railway  accident  and  among  the  debris 
is  discovered  a  valise  with  an  arm  attached  to  it,  they 
may  bury  it  without  further  identification  as  the 
fragments  of  the  Hoosier  Poet." 

Three  thousand  people  enjoyed  and  cheered  the  poet 
in  Colorado  Springs,  and  Reed  introduced  him  to  an 
audience  equally  large  in  Denver.  "It  was  my  pleas 
ure,"  said  Reed,  "to  introduce  the  speaker  of  the  even 
ing  to  his  first  Indianapolis  audience.  He  came  from 
a  small  Indiana  town,  then  he  came  from  Indiana,, 
then  he  came  from  the  United  States,  and  then  he  was 
known  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  If  he  has  more 
friends  elsewhere  than  here  it  is  because  the  city  else 
where  is  larger  than  Denver." 

History  affords  few  examples  of  a  love  more  abid 
ing  than  that  of  Reed  for  Riley.  It  was  akin  to 
Charles  Sumner's  devotion  to  Longfellow.  Eminently 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        377 

fitting  it  was  that  Reed  should  occupy  a  chair  at  the 
edge  of  the  platform  while  the  poet  rendered  his  pro 
gram.  Friends  marked  the  glow  of  satisfaction  on 
his  face.  As  if  he  said,  This  is  the  crowning  moment 
— now  let  thy  servant  depart  in  peace. 

Within  two  short  years  the  departure  came.  In  his 
last  moments,  the  nurse  observed  that  Reed  was  re 
peating  a  name.  There  seemed  a  thread  of  fine  recol 
lection  in  it.  Leaning  nearer  to  hear,  she  discovered 
that  he  was  feebly  whispering  "Riley."  Thus  the 
preacher  and  soldier,  master  of  men  and  lover  of  man 
kind,  passed  through  the  gates  to  the  Beyond,  with 
the  name  of  his  friend  on  quivering  lips. 

In  November,  1897,  the  poet  devoted  two  weeks  to 
Kansas  City,  Topeka,  Lincoln,  Omaha  and  Des  Moines. 
"Seven  nights,"  he  remarked  after  the  reading  in  the 
last  city,  "and  every  night  an  ovation.  It  was  not 
thus  with  the  Hoosier  Poet  in  days  gone  by." 

There  is  no  explaining  Riley,  said  William  Reedy  in 
the  St.  Louis  Mirror,  February,  1898.  The  only  thing 
to  do  is  to  surrender  to  him.  St.  Louis  surrendered. 
She  crowded  a  large  theater  and  crowned  the  success 
of  the  evening  with  a  graceful  introduction  of  the 
poet  by  the  governor  of  the  state. 

In  April  of  the  same  year  Riley  made  a  little 
journey  into  his  "southern  neighborhood" — Memphis, 
Nashville,  Atlanta  and  other  cities  of  Dixie  fame.  In 
October,  beginning  in  Cincinnati,  he  continued  the 
series  of  ovations  north  to  the  Lakes,  and  eastward  to 
Boston.  Once  more  he  became  the  center  of  affection 
and  attention  in  a  brilliant,  representative  gathering 
in  Tremont  Temple.  The  reading  was  under  the 


378  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

auspices  of  the  Woman's  Club  House  Corporation,  and 
the  poet  was  happily  assisted  in  his  program  by  local 
musicians,  as  he  had  been  in  other  cities. 

When  Julia  Ward  Howe,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the 
poet,  slowly  mounted  the  platform,  there  was  an  out 
burst  of  applause  that  had  no  precedent  in  Boston  or 
elsewhere.  The  audience  realized  that  it  was  viewing 
a  picture  which  no  assembly  was  likely  to  behold 
again.  "I  find  myself  charged  with  an  introduction," 
said  Mrs.  Howe,  taking  Riley  by  the  hand  and  leading 
him  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  "a  duty  which  is  as  wel 
come  as  it  is  responsible.  The  program  this  evening 
is  fittingly  one  of  music  and  poetry,  and  may  it  be  that 
this  house  will  be  a  temple  of  the  best  harmony." 

The  poet  as  he  stood  beside  the  venerable  woman 
was  positively  pale.  Soon  however  he  overcame  his 
nervousness,  his  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  poet  and 
audience  were  one  with  each  other.  In  response  to 
the  introduction  he  said :  'In  the  incident  of  ordinary 
travel,  it  is  a  novel  experience  and  delight  for  a  West 
erner  to  visit  this  historic  spot — indeed  his  most  mat 
ter-of-fact  coming  into  this  storied  city  is  so  mem 
orable  an  event  as  to  touch  his  American  spirit  with 
a  still  newer  sense  of  national  pride  and  reverence  and 
obligation.  Judge,  then,  the  bewildered  emotional 
state  of  the  present  visitor,  brought  face  to  face  with 
so  distinctive  a  people  and  presented  for  their  gracious 
tolerance  by  a  citizen  so  distinguished  as  to  have 
uttered  an  inspired  song  for  our  Republic  that  shall 
not  die  while  patriot  hearts  are  fired  with  patriot 
love."  (Prolonged  applause.) 

Then  the  poet  "with  a  sort  of  provincial  drawl," 
launched  into  his  usual  program.  Before  leaving 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        379 

Boston,  while  conversing  with  Mrs.  Howe,  Riley  ex 
pressed  his  debt  to  her  for  his  poem,  "The  Peace- 
Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  which  he  had  read  at  the  29th 
G.  A.  R.  Encampment  at  Louisville,  Kentucky, — how 
he,  while  writing  it,  had  trusted  to  the  inspiration  of 
another,  the  author  of  "The  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Re 
public."  "My  effort  was  a  faint  echo,"  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Howe,  who  promptly  silenced  him  by  praising  a 
sentiment  in  his  own  poem — 

"We  felt  our  Pilot's  presence  with  His  hand  upon  the 
storm, 

As  we  went  sailing  on." 

"With  that  Pilot,"  added  Mrs.  Howe,  "we  walked  the 
troubled  waters.  Our  Ship  of  State  groped  through 
the  smoke  of  war  to  the  day  of  your  hymn — the  day 
of  peace." 

In  March,  1899,  Riley  answered  calls  from  Pitts 
burgh,  Princeton  University,  Philadelphia  and  other 
points  in  that  region.  His  audience  in  Washington 
was  in  the  highest  degree  representative,  consisting 
of  senators,  representatives,  cabinet  officers,  and  many 
of  the  most  prominent  social  leaders  of  the  Capital. 
It  was  a  spontaneous,  heartfelt  compliment,  with 
which  a  city  sometimes  delights  to  honor  its  chosen 
idol.  "The  audience  which  greeted  the  poet  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House,"  said  the  Washington  Post,  "was 
a  tribute  to  genius.  The  spacious  auditorium  was 
taxed  to  its  utmost  capacity.  On  a  night  when  the 
counter-attractions  were  the  most  alluring  of  the 
whole  season  in  this  city,  with  what  are  probably  the 
greatest  drawing  cards  of  the  dramatic  world  opposed 


380  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

to  him,  he  received  an  ovation  which  almost  consti 
tutes  an  epoch  in  his  career.  Recalled  time  after 
time,  during  the  progress  of  the  reading,  his  triumph 
received  its  crowning  demonstration  when,  after  his 
concluding  number,  the  audience  refused  to  leave  the 
hall,  and  compelled  him  by  perfect  thunders  of  ap 
plause  to  appear  again." 

In  the  larger  cities,  where  the  demand  for  seats  was 
very  great,  the  poet  sometimes  gave  two  evenings  to 
the  public.  This  he  did  in  Chicago  in  October,  1900. 
His  quaint  introductions  to  the  recitations  were  the 
same  here  as  elsewhere,  the  program  each  evening 
having  four  general  divisions,  suggesting  the  char 
acter  of  his  recitations. 

TUESDAY  EVENING 

1.  Annals  of  the  Poor.      3.     Character  Sketches. 

2.  Hoosier  Verse.  4.    Rhymes  of  Childhood. 

"I  have  to  offer  this  evening,"  the  poet  said,  intro 
ducing  his  program,  "some  homely  specimens,  with 
your  kindly  tolerance,  of  the  dialect  that  is  peculiar  to 
our  Western  American  country,  and  these  specimens, 
I  may  say,  are  intended  to  be  conscientious  studies  of 
the  people  and  their  peculiar  feelings  and  character 
istics,  as  well  as  of  their  home  language,  which  is 
their  native  tongue.  I  do  not  know  how  better  to 
begin,  because  I  want  to  gain  your  favor  by  relieving 
you  of  any  possible  fear  that  I  am  going  to  administer 
a  lecture,  and  therefore  I  will  at  once  offer  you  a  char 
acter  sketch  of  an  old  country  farmer,  seventy  years 
of  age,  the  pioneer  American  type,  upon  whose  home 
stead  are  found  possibly  not  more  than  a  half  dozen 
books,  each  carefully  selected,  each  an  ever-present 
inspiration.  In  this  connection  we  must  remember 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        381 

that  the  best  of  all  the  works  of  this  meagre  library 
is  The  Book  of  Books;  following  that,  The  Prince  of 
the  House  of  David,  and  for  history — not  the  history 
of  an  elevated  countryman  but  the  history  of  a  true 
American  like  himself,  The  History  of  Daniel  Boone. 
For  romance,  such  as  Scottish  Chiefs,  Children  of  the 
Abbey,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  one  or  more  of  the 
poets,  numbering  among  them  some  of  the  collected 
hymns  that  are  sung  in  the  little  country  churches, 
over  the  lines  of  which  the  old  man  has  painfully  gone 
a  syllable  at  a  time,  again  and  again,  until  he  knows 
them  all  and  loves  them  all.  Then  we  must  remem 
ber  also  that  this  splendid  type  of  the  old  man  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  the  all-kind  Mother  Nature,  lives 
in  the  green  fields  and  near  the  still  waters,  where  the 
opportunity  for  contemplation  is  near  the  heart  of 
Nature.  And,  so  we  find  the  old  man  is  after  all 
equipped  with  an  education,  with  wisdom  and  philos 
ophy,  at  which,  somehow  or  other  we  feel  abashed 
when  we  try  to  apologize  for  it.  I  offer  the  old  man 
just  as  nearly  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  homely  talk 
and  philosophy,  when  the  safety  of  the  crops  is  being 
considered  and  when  some  of  the  discouragements  of 
life  are  being  manifested." 

With  this  the  poet  recited  "Thoughts  fer  the  Dis- 
curaged  Farmer,"  and  then  in  their  order,  "The  Lily 
Bud,"  "The  Old  Soldier's  Story,"  "Out  to  Old  Aunt 
Mary's,"  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine,"  "Down  to 
the  Capital,"  "The  Object  Lesson,"  and  "Little  Or- 
phant  Annie." 

WEDNESDAY  EVENING 

1.  Poems  Here  at  Home.    3.    Life  Studies 

2.  Home  Folks.  4.    The   Book  of  Joyous 

Children. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  the  privilege  of  offering  again 
some  character  studies  of  our  native  Western  dialect," 


382  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  poet  began,  "together  with  some  of  the  character 
istics  of  our  native  people,  and  in  connection  to  answer 
favorably  the  request  for  two  or  three  selections  given 
last  evening.  I  am  not  going  to  worry  you  with  a  long 
preamble  or  an  expression  of  the  intrinsic  merit  of 
the  people  at  heart,  but  will  at  once  begin  this  series 
of  homely  offerings.  And  first  I  present  a  couple  of 
studies  in  contrast,  and  will  ask  you  at  this  time  to 
think  of  the  speaker  as  an  old  man  who  has  lived  upon 
the  farm  all  his  life,  has  no  other  ambitions  than  to 
be  on  the  old  homestead.  He  is  pleased  and  delighted 
with  his  family;  his  neighbors  are  always  neighborly 
— a  sort  of  family  affection  existing  all  round.  With 
the  inspiration  of  the  divine — I  may  call  it  the  divine 
— atmosphere  of  the  season  that  is  now  about  us,  our 
old  friend  finds,  instead  of  the  melancholy  so  often 
associated  with  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf,  much  that  is 
otherwise  than  gloomy.  He  speaks  his  homely  tribute 
in  this  way": 

Here  the  poet  recited  "When  the  Frost  Is  on  the 
Punkin."  The  remaining  selections  for  the  evening 
were,  "The  Old  Man  and  Jim,"  "The  Tree  Toad," 
"Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's,"  "Tradin'  Joe,"  "The  Object 
Lesson,"  "Dutch  Frank,"  and  "The  Bear  Story." 

Chicago  was  a  great  triumph.  Each  evening  before 
the  curtain  rang  up,  the  old  historic  hall  was  filled  to 
overflowing  with  representatives  of  all  classes.  From 
the  first  the  audience  was  in  sympathy  with  the  poet. 
It  knew  his  poems  and  anticipated  his  points ;  laughed 
with  him,  cried  with  him,  and  treated  him  throughout 
with  such  generous  understanding  that  it  seemed  no 
idle  compliment  when,  at  the  close  of  his  reading  the 
second  night,  he  thanked  the  people  for  their  kind 
ness,  and  spoke  of  them  as  his  "very  dear  friends." 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        383 

If,  as  Barrie  says  in  his  Tommy  and  Grizel,  (ran  a 
press  report),  genius  be  the  power  to  become  a  boy 
again,  then  the  Hoosier  Poet  came  within  that  class 
last  night  at  Music  Hall.  The  boy  of  six  or  seven  was 
the  character,  and  the  poet  became  that  boy.  The 
lad  in  all  his  drollery,  his  mischief,  his  unconscious 
ness,  stood  and  whined  upon  that  stage.  In  one 
short  evening  the  poet  had  been  the  small  boy,  the 
Hoosier  farmer  in  divers  roles,  the  old  soldier  with 
one  leg,  and  the  educator  with  a  theory  and  the  pea 
nut.  No  wonder  Charles  Dickens  loved  to  read  and 
act  his  characters,  provided  he  received  anything  like 
the  applause  which  last  night  welcomed  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley. 

The  three  years  following  1900  was  a  rest  period, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  selections  at  the  Authors' 
Readings  for  the  Harrison  Memorial  Fund  in  Indi 
anapolis,  May  30  and  31,  1902,  perhaps  the  most 
notable  and  brilliant  literary  and  social  event  in  the 
history  of  the  city.  The  original  intention  was  to 
have  Riley  appear  only  on  the  first  night.  At  the 
last  moment  an  appeal  was  made  to  him  to  take  part 
in  the  second  evening's  program,  as  seen  in  the  follow 
ing  (part  of  a  letter  addressed  to  him  and  signed  by 
Vice  President  Fairbanks,  the  chairman,  and  the 
authors  who  were  to  read  that  night) : 

With  the  utmost  sincerity  and  good  comradeship 
we  beg  you  to  appear  with  us  on  the  last  night  of  the 
Readings.  We  know  that  we  are  asking  a  sacrifice 
of  you,  but  you  must  realize  on  your  part  that  it  is  an 
opportunity  that  may  never  come  to  us  again.  In  this 
we  justify  our  selfishness. 


384  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

With  the  heartiest  good  wishes  and  the  confident 
hope  that  you  will  be  one  of  us,  we  are 
Faithfully  yours, 

CHARLES  W.  FAIRBANKS, 
LEW  WALLACE, 
MEREDITH  NICHOLSON, 
GEORGE  ADE, 
EVALEEN  STEIN, 
CHARLES  MAJOR, 
GEORGE  BARR  MCCUTCHEON, 
v       MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 

After  Riley  had  given  the  closing  number  the  first 
evening,  the  applause  was  deafening,  hundreds  rising 
in  the  audience  and  waving  their  handkerchiefs  in 
shouts  of  approval.  "That's  a  tremendous  noise  to 
make  over  a  little  man,"  said  Riley  to  friends  stand 
ing  in  the  wings  of  the  stage.  When  silence  was  re 
stored  he  came  forward  and  gave  "Little  Orphant 
Annie." 

At  the  close  of  the  second  evening,  after  he  had 
responded  with  recitations  to  three  encores,  he  stepped 
again  to  the  footlights  and  said,  "I  will  give  one  more 
sketch,  and  if.  that  does  not  remove  the  audience,  we 
will  fumigate  the  hall." 

The  thunders  of  applause  that  greeted  that  sally 
bore  striking  resemblance  to  the  clamor  of  a  political 
convention. 

Booth  Tarkington  who  appeared  on  the  program  the 
second  evening,  has  left  on  record  a  matchless  tribute 
to  the  magic  of  the  poet  on  the  platform.  He  said, 
among  other  things,  in  Collier's  Weekly,  "He  held  a 
literally  unmatched  power  over  his  audience  for  riot 
ous  laughter  or  for  actual  copious  tears;  and  no  one 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM         385 

who  ever  saw  an  exhibition  of  that  power  will  forget 
it — or  forget  him.  There  he  stood,  alone  upon  the 
stage,  a  blond,  shortish,  whimsical  man  in  evening 
clothes — a  figure  with  'a  whole  lot  of  style/  and  a 
whole  lot  of  his  own  style  too !  He  offered  a  deferen 
tial  prefatory  sentence  or  so;  then  suddenly  face  and 
figure  altered,  seemed  to  merge  completely  into  those 
of  a  person  altogether  different  from  the  poet,  and 
not  Mr.  Eiley,  but  a  Hoosier  farm  hand,  perhaps,  or 
a  thin  little  girl  stood  before  you,  'done  to  life/  Then 
the  voice  came,  'done  to  the  life/  too — done  to  the  last 
half-audible  breath  at  the  end  of  husky  chuckle  or 
wistful  sigh.  There  was  no  visible  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  magician :  the  audience  did  not  strain  or  worry 
for  him  as  audiences  so  often  do  for  those  who  'enter 
tain*  them,  because  his  craft  lay  not  in  contortion  but 
in  a  glamouring  suggestion  that  held  spectators  rapt 
and  magnetized." 

In  the  fall  of  1903  the  poet  made  the  most  successful 
tour  of  his  career — financially  as  well  as  artistically 
successful,  the  door  receipts  in  some  cities  totaling 
two  thousand  dollars — quite  a  contrast  to  the  begin 
ning  of  his  platform  success  at  Lewisville,  Indiana, 
a  quarter-century  before,  when  the  admission  was  ten 
cents,  the  total  receipts  nominal  and  his  portion  four 
dollars.  The  tour  began  at  Frankfort,  Indiana,  with 
a  tribute  from  a  prince  of  orators,  Congressman 
Charles  B.  Landis.  "What  a  magnificent  audience!" 
said  he,  introducing  the  poet.  "What  a  temptation 
for  a  man  in  my  business  to  deliver  an  address  on  the 
tariff,  or  the  free  and  unlimited  coinage  of  silver,  or 
the  gold  standard.  Frankfort  should  be  proud  that 
she  is  the  initial  point  for  a  series  of  entertainments 


386  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

which  are  certain  to  be  memorable.  I  have  always 
contended  that  Riley  comes  nearer  being  everybody's 
poet  than  anybody  who  has  ever  sung.  How  proud 
Indiana  should  be!  What  fame  her  sons  and  daugh 
ters  have  brought  her  in  the  literary  field!  Had  she 
no  other  literary  light  than  Riley,  I  contend  that  she 
would  still  be  the  envy  of  her  sister  states.  His  poem 
'Old  Glory*  will  be  read  and  repeated  as  long  as  the 
stars  shine  on  the  banner.  I  remember  that  when  my 
son  was  four  years  old,  we  read  to  him  from  Riley's 
verse,  and  the  pathos  of  it  brought  tears  to  his  childish 
eyes.  That  was  the  guileless  tribute  of  childhood  to 
genius.  And  now,  when  I  present  our  friend  to  you, 
let  all  rise  to  their  feet,  and  let  every  man  and  every 
woman,  with  handkerchief  in  hand  wave  him  a  wel 
come." 

Instantly  the  audience  rose  and  for  the  moment, 
poet  and  congressman  saw  through  dewy  eyes  a  sea 
of  billowy  white. 

Quitting  Frankfort,  with  Dickens'  Christmas 
Stories  and  The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse  in  his 
bag  for  reading  between  stations,  the  poet  continued 
a  circuit  of  Indiana  cities,  then  northward  to  Saginaw, 
Michigan,  returning  through  Ann  Arbor,  Detroit, 
Toledo  and  Dayton  to  Music  Hall,  Cincinnati,  the 
interest  and  attendance  increasing  with  each  engage 
ment.  "Why  should  our  city  not  be  'home*  for  Riley?" 
asked  the  Cincinnati  Post.  "He  belongs  to  the  world, 
and  the  world  is  proud  of  the  kinship.  He  is  one  of 
the  few  men  who  can  hang  up  their  hats  anywhere 
and  find  a  welcome  and  hearty  handshakes  and  cordial 
greetings.  He  is  a  missionary.  The  sunshine  that 


LAST  DAYS  ON  THE  PLATFORM        387 

drips    from    his    pen    makes    a    million    smiles.     He 
teaches  love  and  his  school  is  open  all  the  time." 

The  Post  and  the  public  did  not  know  of  the  trials 
of  traveling,  of  the  poet's  almost  morbidly  sensitive 
nature.  They  could  not  believe  that  the  man  who 
kept  them  vibrating  like  a  pendulum  "  'twixt  a  smile 
and  a  tear,"  suffered  every  evening,  before  facing  his 
audience,  from  nervous  apprehension,  known  as  "stage 
fright."  But  so  he  did.  The  poet  the  public  knew — 
and  the  one  it  should  have  always  uppermost  in  mind 
— was  the  singer  who  banished  pain  and  sorrow,  the 
lover  of  children  and  flowers  and  fairies.  While  he 
passed,  the  skies  were  sunny — 

"In  the  suburb,  in  the  town, 

On  the  railway,  in  the  square, 
.Came  a  beam  of  gladness  down 
Doubling  daylight  everywhere." 

From  Cincinnati  the  tour  swung  eastward  to  Pitts 
burgh,  that  the  poet  might  grasp  the  hand  of  the  rich- 
hearted  Ras  Wilson.  "James  Whitcomb  Riley,"  wrote 
Wilson  in  the  Pittsburg  Gazette  after  the  poet's  visit, 
"has  been  before  the  public  personally  ever  since  his 
poems  became  known,  and  there  are  but  few  nooks 
and  corners  in  this  country  that  he  has  not  visited  on 
invitation  given  by  the  people,  and  to  all  of  which  he 
has  a  standing  invitation  to  come  again,  and  come 
often,  and  stay  as  long  as  he  can."  From  Pittsburgh 
the  way  led  westward  through  Peoria,  Illinois,  and 
Des  Moines  and  Omaha  to  Topeka,  Kansas,  where  the 
poet  had  the  largest  audience  in  his  platform  history, 
not  that  he  had  more  friends  in  Topeka  than  else- 


388  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

where,  but  because  the  seating  capacity  of  the  Toler 
Auditorium  was  larger.  Homeward  bound  he  gave 
another  night  to  Kansas  City,  and,  as  was  his  desire, 
terminated  his  tour  December  14,  1903,  at  Logansport, 
Indiana, — that,  as  the  sequel  proved,  being  his  fare 
well  reading  to  the  American  people. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

THE  first  to  pay  the  academic  compliment  to  the 
poet  was  Yale  University.  The  honor  came  as 
a  surprise,  not  only  to  Riley  but  to  his  friends 
everywhere,  for  it  was  well  known  that  he  was  not  a 
college  man,  hardly  a  product  of  the  common  schools. 
He  was  a  man  of  letters,  but  "so  far  removed  from  the 
academic  methods  and  manner,  in  both  his  work  and 
in  his  personality,"  said  the  Indianapolis  Journal, 
"that  in  the  minds  of  those  who  know  him  best  he  is 
not  in  any  way  associated  with  the  college  idea." 

The  commencement  exercises  took  place  in  Battell 
Chapel,  June  25,  1902.  "Mr.  President,"  said  Pro 
fessor  Bernadotte  Perrin,  the  public  orator  of  the  day : 
"I  have  the  honor  to  present  to  you  for  the  honorary 
degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

"This  Hoosier  has  achieved  the  name,  the  fame,  and 
the  still  more  enviable  influence  of  a  national  poet. 
His  hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers  come  to  love 
him  as  Whittier  and  Longfellow  were  loved.  The 
rustic  voices  of  his  dialect  have  revealed  Theocritean 
and  Sicilian  shepherds  in  our  Indiana.  The  murmur 
of  their  voices,  for  countless  men  and  women,  is  like 
Shakespeare's  sleep, — 'that  knits  up  the  raveled  sleave 
of  care/  " 

Then  arose  "that  striking  figure,"  as  Riley  re 
marked  afterward,  "the  right  man  in  the  right  place," 

389 


390  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

President  Arthur  Twining  Hadley.  "As  an  exponent 
of  poetic  arts  in  country  life,"  said  the  president,  "we 
hereby  confer  on  you  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts." 

The  hood  appropriate  to  the  degree  was  then  placed 
on  the  poet's  head — and  he  became  a  son  of  Old  Eli. 

After  hearing  Riley  at  the  alumni  dinner,  some 
fears  were  expressed  that  he  did  not  regard  the  honor 
with  the  dignity  it  deserved,  although  the  cheering 
over  what  he  said  amounted  to  "a  splendid  ovation." 
In  a  graceful  little  speech  he  spoke  of  attending  the 
commencement  of  a  seventy-year-old  college  in  Indi 
ana,  "but  here  was  Yale  one  hundred  and  thirty  years 
old  when  my  little  Indiana  college  was  born.  What 
surprises  me  however  is  that  it  took  Yale  two  hundred 
years  to  give  me  the  degree." 

The  poet  was  tremendously  proud  of  the  honor,  then 
and  ever  after.  He  liked  the  statement  of  Senator 
Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  who  also  received  a  degree,  that 
we  Americans,  whether  inside  or  outside  the  college, 
are  working  together  for  the  greatest  good  of  our 
great  Republic,  and  he  fondly  repeated  the  Senator's 
words:  "A  rose  in  the  hand  is  worth  thousands 
placed  upon  a  grave,  and  so  to-day  it  is  a  great  and 
glorious  blessing  to  have  honors  in  this  world  which 
money  can  not  produce  and  which  money  can  not 
buy." 

The  Indianapolis  News  thought  the  honor  fairly 
distributed  between  Yale  and  Indiana.  "All  true  as 
far  as  it  goes,"  said  the  Chicago  Records-Herald,  "but 
Mr.  Riley  and  Yale  and  Indiana  are  not  the  only  re 
cipients  of  the  honor.  He  is  an  American  poet,  and 
the  whole  nation  has  a  share  in  the  honor  which  he 
has  received." 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        391 

Whether  familiar  with  the  poet  in  their  childhood 
or  not,  the  Yale  students  were  always  interested  in 
Riley,  "took  to  him/'  said  Professor  William  Lyon 
Phelps,  "as  naturally  as  spring  follows  winter."  The 
Yale  courses  in  American  Literature,  since  1897  had 
included  studies  of  the  Hoosier  Poet.  Doctor  Phelps 
had  required  critical  essays  on  two  Riley  volumes, 
Poems  Here  at  Home  and  Neghborly  Poems.  And  to 
him  is  due  the  honor  of  first  suggesting  to  the  Yale 
Corporation  that  Riley  receive  a  degree  from  that 
institution.  He  said:  "A  university  can  do  nothing 
better  than  to  recognize  and  formally  mark  with 
academic  distinction,  genuine  creative  work  in  litera 
ture." 

In  this  connection  Riley's  admirers  must  always  be 
grateful  to  the  venerable  Professor  Henry  A.  Beers, 
who  long  before  the  degree  was  conferred  said  in  his 
book  on  American  literature  that  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  had  become  a  national  poet,  indicating  that  he 
had  taken  the  place  left  vacant  by  Longfellow. 

At  the  commencement  exercises  Doctor  Beers  was 
the  poet's  right-hand  man.  "I  can  not  quite  see  why 
geniuses  like  Mark  Twain  and  Riley,  whose  books  are 
read  and  loved  by  hundreds  and  thousands  of  their 
countrymen,"  he  wrote  subsequently,  "should  care  very 
much  for  a  college  degree.  The  fact  remains,  how 
ever,  that  they  are  gratified  by  the  compliment,  which 
stamps  their  performances  with  a  sort  of  official  sanc 
tion.  When  Mr.  Riley  came  on  to  New  Haven  to  take 
his  degree,  he  was  a  bit  nervous  about  making  a  pub 
lic  appearance  in  unwonted  conditions  although  he 
had  been  used  to  facing  popular  audiences  with  great 
applause  when  he  gave  his  delightful  readings  from 


392  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

his  poems.  He  rehearsed  the  affair  in  advance,  try 
ing  on  his  Master's  gown  and  reading  me  his  poem, 
'No  Boy  Knows  When  He  Goes  to  Sleep/  which  he 
proposed  to  use  if  called  on  for  a  speech.  He  asked 
me  if  it  would  do :  it  did.  For  at  the  alumni  dinner 
which  followed  the  conferring  of  degrees,  when  Riley 
got  to  his  feet  and  read  the  piece,  the  audience  broke 
loose.  It  was  evident  whatever  the  learned  gentle 
men  on  the  platform  might  think,  the  undergraduates 
and  the  young  alumni  knew  their  Riley;  and  that  his 
enrolment  on  the  Yale  catalogue  was  far  and  away 
the  most  popular  act  of  the  day." 

In  Philadelphia,  on  Washington's  birthday,  1904, 
the  poet  was  honored  by  The  University  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  the  exercises  taking  place  in  the  spacious  Acad 
emy  of  Music,  where  for  twenty  years  and  more  he 
had,  at  intervals,  charmed  great  audiences  with  his 
public  readings.  It  was  an  imposing  spectacle,  the 
governor  of  the  state,  the  faculty,  the  trustees  and 
other  officers  of  the  university  filing  in  on  the  wide 
stage  while  the  audience  rose  to  the  strains  of  The 
Star-Spangled  Banner. 

The  Hoosier  Poet's  was  the  first  name  called.  "We 
have  invited  to  be  present,  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
because  he  is  a  writer  of  immortal  verse,"  began  the 
Public  Orator,  Joseph  Levering  Jones.  "He  is  a  poet 
supremely  idyllic,"  the  orator  continued,  in  part,  "but 
in  the  deep  glimpses  that  he  gives  of  country  life  we 
see  not  Bacchus  or  Pan.  He  shuns  the  antique  world. 
He  lives,  a  free  and  aspiring  modern,  out  under  the 
heavens,  where  youth  and  energy  dwell  and  oppor 
tunity  extends  her  open  hand.  The  imposing  features 
of  wealth  and  power  inspire  not  his  pen.  His  art  is 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        393 

inimitable  when  it  deals  with  the  humble,  those  undis 
tinguished  in  life,  where  the  emotions  are  still  nobly 
primitive  and  loyalty  and  gentle  devotion  rule  the 
heart  and  govern  conduct. 

"For  these  rare  attributes  in  his  felicitous  verse 
and  prose  we,  the  Trustees,  present  him  to  the  Pro 
vost  that  he  may  receive  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Letters." 

But  one  thing  more  was  required  to  round  out  the 
patriotic  program  of  the  day,  and  that  was  the  poet's 
contribution  at  the  alumni  dinner — his  rendition  of 
"The  Name  of  Old  Glory/'  which  was  received  with 
tremendous  applause. 

No  other  western  literary  man  had  ever  received 
the  academic  recognition  that  had  been  accorded  Riley. 
"His  reception  was  in  every  way  most  distinguished," 
said  Meredith  Nicholson.  "He  now  has  degrees  from 
Yale  and  Pennsylvania,  and  neither  of  those  institu 
tions  is  in  the  habit  of  throwing  honors  around 
promiscuously." 

Prior  to  the  honors  from  Pennsylvania,  the  poet  re 
ceived  a  degree  from  Wabash  College  and  subsequently 
one  from  Indiana  University.  "It  is  doubtful,"  said 
the  Denver  Times,  "if  in  the  whole  field  of  American 
literature  there  could  be  found  one  whose  recognition 
would  meet  with  such  universal  approval.  Riley  has 
accomplished  what  no  other  poet  before  him  and  none 
of  his  contemporaries  has  succeeded  in  doing.  He  has 
created  a  place  in  literature  which  he  has  filled  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  great  mass  of  the  plain  people  for 
whom  he  speaks." 

Having  for  twenty  years  been  vindicated  by  the 
press,  and  now  having  the  academic  seal  on  his  work, 


394  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

it  would  seem  that  the  foes  of  Riley's  dialect,  "the 
mosquito-minded  critics,"  as  Tarkington  calls  them, 
are  seemingly  left  without  occasion  for  their  buzzing. 
It  is  scarcely  wise  any  longer  or  popular  to  say  that 
"his  dialect  poems  are  injuring  Indiana's  reputation 
for  culture."  The  Hoosier  parlance,  which  Riley  sub 
dued  to  rhyme,  as  William  Dean  Howells  was  wont  to 
say,  has  not  the  consecration  which  time  has  given  to 
the  Scottish  dialect  in  Burns,  "but  it  says  things  as 
tenderly,"  adds  Howells,  "and  as  intimately,  and  on 
the  lips  of  the  Hoosier  master  it  is  music." 

Happily  for  the  foes  of  dialect  there  is  The  Locker 
bie  Book,  containing  all  the  poems  Riley  wrote  in 
normal  English.  A  companion  volume  is  The  Hoosier 
Book,  containing  the  poems  in  dialect — two  volumes 
collected  and  arranged  by  the  able  editor  of  the  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Company,  Hewitt  Hanson  Howland.  The  poet 
dreamed  of  a  time  when  all  his  poems  would  be  col 
lected  in  one  volume.  The  Lockerbie  Book  was  in 
part  the  fulfillment  of  that  dream,  and  one  shares  his 
joy  over  the  fact  that  the  collection  should  be  the  work 
of  Mr.  Howland,  who  had  been  associated  with  him 
almost  daily  for  twenty  years  in  a  friendship  which 
had  never  once  been  darkened  by  a  passing  cloud. 
The  Lockerbie  Book  was  rather  a  surprise  to  the 
literary  public, — the  poet's  claim  that  he  had  done  his 
greatest  work  in  normal  English.  He  had  three  great 
friends,  W.  D.  Howells,  Mark  Twain  and  John  Hay, 
who  held  that  his  dialect  poems  were  equally  great. 
Whether  posterity  will  sustain  that  opinion  must  be 
left  to  the  winnowing  of  time.  Meanwhile  friends  of 
the  poet  everywhere  will  share  his  delight  over  The 
Lockerbie  Book,  "the  volume  for  the  cultivated 


IN  THE  HEAETS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        395 

classes,"  he  said,  meaning  particularly  those  who 
eschew  dialect ;  for  it  has  to  be  said  that  the  persistent 
severity  of  their  criticism  had  often  caused  him  to 
pace  the  floor. 

A  self-righteous  few  were  for  a  long  while  con 
cerned  about  the  poet's  salvation;  and  these  also,  at 
times,  made  the  poet  pace  the  floor.  Once  a  revivalist, 
more  ambitious  than  religious,  gained  entrance  to 
Riley's  room  with  a  view  to  "saving  his  soul,"  as  he 
termed  it.  Riley  had  been  so  busy  writing  poems  that 
he  had  forgotten  he  had  a  soul,  and  he  promptly  let 
the  intruder  know  it.  The  revivalist  persisting,  the 
poet  picked  up  his  Bible  and  said:  "Let  me  read 
from  the  inspired  word  of  Longfellow  as  recorded  in 
'The  New  England  Tragedies/"  Lovers  of  Long 
fellow  will  surmise  what  he  read — the  sad  picture  oi 
Poor  Humanity  turning  from  the  narrow  rules  and 
the  subtleties  of  the  Schools  and  the  bewildering  cry, 
"lo,  here !  lo,  there !  the  Church !"— turning  back  with 
bleeding  feet 

"By  the  weary  road  it  came 

Unto  the  simple  thought 

By  the  great  Master  taught, 
And  that  remaineth  still: 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name 
But  he  that  doeth  the  will." 

Widely  different  from  the  revivalist's  was  the  atti 
tude  of  the  Church  Federation  of  the  poet's  home  city, 
in  including  him  in  its  federated  forces,  "as  a  helpful 
interpreter  of  God  and  the  humanities,  and  as  a  poetic 
preacher  of  goodness,  kindness,  mercy,  and  righteous 
ness."  As  a  minister  said,  "Riley  made  no  formal 


396  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

profession  of  religious  belief,  but  over  and  over  again 
his  trust  in  the  Eternal  Goodness  found  expression." 
That  is  fact,  and  it  is  good  to  record  that  a  clergyman 
said  it.  "I  am  a  Newlite,"  said  Riley,  "a  Hicksite,  a 
Methodist,  a  Probationer,  a  Publican,  a  Sinner;  I  be 
long  to  the  Great  Church  of  Mankind.  They  (the 
clergymen)  have  their  pulpits  and  I  have  mine.  They 
in  their  province  and  I  in  my  poor,  unprofessional 
way  are  contributing  to  the  redemption  of  the  world." 

"In  his  sixties,"  said  Hugh  H.  Hanna  of  Indian 
apolis,  "our  poet  was  detained  in  Lockerbie  Street  to 
receive  the  plaudits  of  the  press  and  the  people" — his 
delicate  way  of  referring  to  the  poet's  disability,  in 
his  summing  up  the  unusual  life-history.  It  was  not 
for  him,  or  any  other  friend  of  literature,  so  Mr. 
Hanna  thought,  to  lament  the  invalid  years,  for  the 
facts  are  that  the  poet  was  neither  physically  nor 
mentally  active  in  that  period.  For  six  years  he  ex 
perienced  "the  cords  of  affliction."  His  friends  missed 
him  along  his  daily  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  trees 
between  the  Monument  and  Lockerbie  Street.  But  he 
was  seldom  too  feeble  or  despondent  to  joke  about  his 
affliction,  saying  "it  was  not  thus  with  the  Little  Man 
in  his  debonair  days,  when  he  wore  his  tie  under  his 
left  ear,"  and  so  forth. 

It  was  noteworthy  that  the  poet  could  smile  over 
what  seemed  to  others  his  misfortune.  Each  winter 
he  had  sufficient  strength  to  go  to  the  warm  coast  of 
Florida,  and  seldom  was  there  a  summer  afternoon  in 
Indianapolis  when  he  did  not  ride  through  the  streets 
or  out  into  the  country,  in  his  limousine,  and  greet  his 
friends  from  its  window,  with  "the  old  twinkling  re 
sponse  and  the  wave  of  the  hand — the  left  hand." 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        397 

Fortunate  he  was  in  those  paralytic  days  to  have 
always  at  call  his  nephew,  Edmund  H.  Eitel,  the 
"Knightly  Rider  of  the  Knee"  in  Rhymes  of  Child 
hood,  who,  grown  to  manhood,  rendered  the  poet  rare 
service  as  traveling  companion,  private  secretary,  and 
collector  and  editor  of  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the 
poet's  works. 

In  1910  "the  cords  of  affliction"  were  drawn  tighter. 
Thence  to  the  end  it  seemed  the  people  could  not  heap 
honors  enough  on  their  benefactor.  The  poet  had 
accumulated  a  considerable  fortune,  although  he  had 
given  freely,  his  most  munificent  gift  being  one  of 
seventy-five  thousand  dollars  to  the  Indianapolis  Pub 
lic  Library.  Thus,  in  the  entrance  to  that  institution, 
the  bronze  tablets  with  the  following  inscription: 

THESE  GATES  ARE  THE  GIFT 

OF  THE 

CHILDREN  OF  INDIANAPOLIS 
IN  LOVING  REMEMBRANCE 

OF  THEIR  FRIEND 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

With  the  opening  of  the  year  1911  Riley  was  much 
concerned  over  the  multiplicity  of  Riley  celebrations. 
He  had  been  the  guest  of  honor  on  so  many  occasions 
that  he  began  to  grow  uneasy.  There  was  a  pathetic 
side  to  applause.  The  public  was  fickle,  and  might 
some  night  when  his  friends  were  napping,  snatch 
him  down  from  his  pedestal.  The  truth  was  that  all 
along  the  way  he  had  wondered  over  so  much  demon 
stration.  "It  makes  a  fellow  feel  mighty  humble 
when  folks  do  things  like  this,"  he  said  of  his  reception 


398  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

at  the  World's  Fair.  After  receiving  his  Yale  degree 
he  said,  "I  just  wanted  to  get  behind  the  door  and  hide 
myself." 

"Just  the  humblest  of  humble  servants,"  he  said, 
after  his  election  to  membership  in  the  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  and  his  reception  of  the 
gold  medal  for  poetry;  "I  want  to  get  down  on  my 
marrow-bones  and  never,  never  hug  myself  again." 

Still  the  avowals  of  public  affection  continued.  At 
a  state  convention  in  1910,  the  Indiana  Federation  of 
Women's  Clubs,  acting  on  a  resolution  introduced  by 
Mrs.  Minnie  Belle  Mitchell  of  Greenfield,  had  voted  to 
celebrate  the  poet's  birthday.  The  school  authorities, 
being  in  sympathy  with  the  movement,  instructed  the 
teachers  and  children  of  Indiana  to  observe  October 
seventh  as  Riley  Day.  When,  the  next  year,  the  poet 
discovered  that  the  state  was  serious  about  the  cele 
bration,  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  children  of  his 
home  city,  who  were  revealing  the  year  of  his  birth, 
which  he  had  kept  secret  since  his  young  manhood: 

528  Lockerbie  Street. 
To  the  School  Children  of  Indianapolis : 

You  are  conspirators — every  one  of  you,  that's  what 
you  are — you  have  conspired  to  inform  the  general 
public  of  my  birthday,  and  I  am  already  so  old  that  I 
want  to  forget  all  about  it.  But  I  will  be  magnani 
mous  and  forgive  you,  for  I  know  that  your  intent  is 
really  friendly,  and  to  have  such  friends  as  you  are 
makes  me — don't  care  how  old  I  am !  In  fact  it  makes 
me  so  glad  and  happy  that  I  feel  as  absolutely  young 
and  spry  as  a  very  schoolboy — even  as  one  of  you — 
and  so  to  all  intents  I  am. 

Therefore  let  me  be  with  you  throughout  the  long, 
lovely  day,  and  share  your  mingled  joys  and  blessings 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        399 

with  your  parents  and  your  teachers.     "God  bless  us 
every  one." 

Ever  gratefully  and  faithfully, 

Your  old  friend, 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

The  "conspirators"  had  so  successfully  done  their 
work  that  serenades  became  the  fashion  in  Lockerbie 
Street.  There  came  also  to  the  poet  congratulatory 
messages  from  other  states  and  from  Canada — one 
from  the  school  authorities  of  Kentucky,  and  another 
from  the  superintendent  of  the  bureau  of  libraries  of 
New  York  State  to  the  effect  that  five  hundred  thou 
sand  children  were  ready  to  participate  in  the  observ 
ance  of  Riley  Day. 

His  greeting  for  1912  was  addressed  to  children 
everywhere : 

528  Lockerbie  Street. 
To  the  School  Children  Generally: 

It  may  be  well  for  you  to  remember  that  the  day 
you  are  about  to  celebrate  is  the  birthday  of  many 
good  men,  but  if  I  may  be  counted  the  least  of  these, 
I  will  be  utterly  content  and  happy.  I  can  only  thank 
you  and  your  teachers  with  a  full  heart  and  the  fer 
vent  hope  that  the  day  will  prove  an  equal  glory  to  us 
all. 

To  the  Very  Little  Children: 

I  would  say — be  simply  yourselves,  and  though  even 
parents,  as  I  sometimes  think — do  not  seem  to  under 
stand  us  perfectly,  we  will  be  patient  with  them  and 
love  them  no  less  loyally  and  very  tenderly. 

Most  truly  your  hale  friend  and  comrade, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


400  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Friendly  authors  contributed  to  the  general  enthusi 
asm.  Meredith  Nicholson  congratulated  the  children 
on  the  fact  that  poetry  had  not  gone  out  of  fashion. 
"It  is  a  great  thing/'  he  said,  "to  have  living  among 
us  a  man  who  has  sent  his  messages  of  faith  and  confi 
dence  into  the  minds  and  hearts  of  people  in  every 
part  of  the  world." 

A  characteristic  word  to  the  Indianapolis  Star, 
dated  October  6, 1912,  came  from  our  "Modern  ^Esop," 
of  Brook,  Indiana : 

Our  own  Riley  is  the  one  distinguished  son  of 
Indiana  whose  life  and  works  are  the  very  essence 
of  the  Hoosier  State.  Benjamin  Harrison  might  have 
been  a  Bostonian.  General  Lew  Wallace  might  have 
been  a  New  Yorker.  Booth  Tarkington,  with  his  tales 
of  chivalry  and  tender  sentiment,  might  have  come 
out  from  Virginia.  But  Riley  could  not  have  been 
anything  but  a  Hoosier,  and  possibly  it  was  pre 
ordained  a  thousand  years  ago  that  he  should  be  born 
in  Greenfield.  He  has  known  his  friends  and  neigh 
bors  to  the  very  core,  and  he  has  revealed  them  to  us 
with  literary  skill,  combined  with  drollery,  humor, 
honest  philosophy,  and  kindness  of  heart. 

One  can  not  know  the  plain  people  of  Indiana  ex 
cept  by  living  among  them  all  his  life  and  reading 
Riley.  The  man's  evasion  of  all  dress  parades  of 
literature,  his  quiet  contempt  for  ceremonies  and  dis 
plays,  and  his  real  sympathy  for  everything  humble 
and  genuine,  regardless  of  labels,  have  endeared  him 
to  us.  When  such  a  rare  soul  is  also  one  of  the  few 
masters  of  verse  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  whole 
state  wishes  to  do  him  honor. 

GEORGE  ADE. 

The  next  year  Anderson,  Indiana,  gave  to  the  poet 
the  keys  to  the  city.  For  a  quarter-century  he  had 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        401 

been  disinclined  to  any  public  appearance  there,  not 
being  able  to  dismiss  from  memory  recollections  of  the 
Poe  Poem,  and  his  heart-breaking  failure  in  an  enter 
tainment  at  the  old  Union  Hall,  as  well  as  his  obscure 
departure  from  the  town. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  all  things  in  the  way  of 
a  reception  to  him  were  written  in  capitals  and  italics, 

"When  forgetting  all  the  sorrow 

He  had  had, 

He  could  fold  away  his  fears, 
And  put  by  his  foolish  tears, 
And  through  all  the  coming  years 

Just  be  glad"— 

a  day  when  he  read  from  his  books,  a  grand  ovation 
at  the  Grand  Opera  House,  a  sympathetic  audience 
that  overflowed  on  the  stage,  a  demand  for  seats  that 
exceeded  the  supply  by  one  thousand,  a  disappointed 
audience  outside  so  large  and  persistent  that  the  police 
had  to  guard  the  aisles  and  doorways — an  evening 
when  newspaper  representatives  and  traction  car 
delegations  came  from  neighboring  towns,  when  chil 
dren  brought  bouquets  to  the  footlights,  and  Ander 
son  presented  her  guest  a  loving  cup. 

Was  there  anything  more  that  Anderson  could  do? 
There  was — so  much  more  that  the  ovation  at  the 
Grand  had  to  take  second  place.  The  first  week  in 
June,  1913,  the  industrial,  commercial,  educational, 
fraternal,  and  municipal  interests  of  the  city  joined 
in  a  "Made-in- Anderson"  exhibition,  and  not  for 
getting  that  the  city  had  conspicuously  contributed  to 
the  making  of  a  poet,  Tuesday  was  set  apart  as  Riley 
Day. 


402  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  poet  went  to  Anderson  in  his  automobile,  ac 
companied  by  friends,  and  all  along  the  road  the 
farmers  and  their  families  gathered  at  gateways  to 
see  him  pass.  Leading  citizens  of  Anderson  met  him 
at  Pendleton,  and  from  there,  a  distance  of  eight  miles, 
it  was  a  procession  of  automobiles  with  the  poet's  car 
in  the  lead.  In  West  Eighth  Street  the  children  of  the 
city  greeted  him,  and  as  he  passed  literally  covered 
him  and  his  machine  with  flowers. 

In  front  of  the  Court  House  the  throng  of  welcomers 
was  so  dense  that  the  poet's  car  was  stopped.  Almost 
overpowered  with  the  tenderness  of  his  welcome,  he 
rose  in  his  car  and  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  emotion, 
said:  "Citizens  of  Anderson,  and  you,  little  children, 
who  have  so  wonderfully  greeted  me,  I  have  no  words 
to  express  to  you  what  is  in  my  heart  at  this  moment. 
This  is  the  happiest  day  of  my  life.  I  thank  you  for 
your  generous  welcome.  I  thank  you  for  your  beauti 
ful  flowers.  With  all  my  heart,  I  thank  you — I  thank 
you." 

When  at  the  conclusion  of  the  celebration  the  poet 
left  for  home,  his  automobile  was  bedecked  with 
strands  of  red  clover  plucked  from  fields  he  had 
strolled  over  in  youth.  Flowers  and  bouquets  from 
the  homes  of  old-time  friends  were  tossed  into  the  car, 
and  as  he  drove  away,  his  face  aglow  with  gratitude, 
he  murmured:  "A  wonderful  day;  one  of  God's  won 
derful  days !" 

In  November,  on  his  way  south,  the  poet  was  de 
tained  in  Cincinnati,  where  several  thousand  school 
children  brought  flowers  to  his  reception  in  Music 
Hall.  On  his  birthday  a  month  before,  nearly  three 
thousand  children  had  marched  in  parade  through 


FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  POET  IN  His  LATTER  YEARS — 1913 


HENRY  WATTERSON — AGE  SEVENTY-EIGHT — STAUNCH  FRIEND  OF 
THE  POET  FOR  THIRTY  YEARS 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        403 

Lockerbie  Street.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  his  poem, 
"Dream-March,"  came  with  its  army  of  fairy  ban 
ners  to  vivify  his  sunset  days?  Brave  boys  and  girls 
marching  out  of  Morning-Land,  turning  never  home 
again — only  in  dreams — 

"Where  go  the  children?    Travelling!     Travelling! 

Where  go  the  children,  travelling  ahead? 
Some  go  to  conquer  things ;  some  go  to  try  them ; 
Some  go  to  dream  them ;  and  some  go  to  bed." 

On  the  approach  of  the  birthday,  1915,  there  came 
a  proclamation  from  the  Governor,  the  only  one  of  its 
kind  in  the  annals  of  literature.  After  briefly  re 
ferring  to  the  poet's  history,  the  proclamation  said : 

"Whether  the  arch  above  his  head  was  at  times  one 
of  sunshine  or  one  of  cloud,  all  recognized  that  in  the 
depths  of  his  soul  there  was  love  for  his  fellowman 
and  adoration  for  his  God.  Whether  he  was  painting 
signs  or  writing  verses,  the  people  were  his  study. 
He  familiarized  himself  with  their  manners  and  cus 
toms  and  characteristics,  and  with  melody  and  sweet 
ness  and  a  singular  gift  of  invention,  he  told  them 
things  about  themselves  they  did  not  know.  This  is 
why  they  have  always  loved  him. 

"More  than  any  other  citizen  of  Indiana,  James 
Whitcpmb  Riley  has  carried  the  fame  of  his  native 
state  into  the  schools  and  homes  of  the  world.  It  is 
not  strange  therefore  that  there  should  be  a  wide 
spread  feeling  among  our  people  that  the  anniversary 
of  his  birth  should  be  celebrated  in  honor  of  his  poetic 
genius  and  his  literary  achievements,  and  in  recog 
nition  of  his  contributions  to  society. 

"He  is  the  children's  poet,  and  he  has  become  such 
because  he  has  so  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  One  who 
said,  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me.  All  Indi- 


404  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ana  will  rejoice  therefore  to  see  her  children  afforded 
an  opportunity  to  place  their  heart  wreaths  upon  his 
brow  and  strew  their  flowers  about  his  feet. 

"Now,  therefore,  I,  Samuel  M.  Ralston,  as  Governor 
of  the  State  of  Indiana,  hereby  designate  and  pro 
claim  the  seventh  day  of  October,  A.  D.,  1915,  the 
anniversary  of  the  birth  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  as 
Riley  Day;  and  I  urge  all  the  people  of  the  state  to 
arrange  in  their  respective  communities,  in  their  own 
way,  appropriate  public  exercises  in  their  schools  and 
at  their  other  public  meeting  places;  and  that  they 
display  the  American  flag  at  their  homes  and  places 
of  business  on  this  day,  in  honor  of  Indiana's  most 
beloved  citizen." 

There  came  also  a  word  from  the  National  Com 
missioner  of  Education,  who  had  directed  that  the 
seventh  of  October  be  observed  as  Riley  Day  by  all 
of  the  Public,  Private,  and  Parochial  Schools  of  the 
United  States.  This  word  and  the  governor's  procla 
mation  lifted  the  poet  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  de 
light,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  let  his  near  friends 
know  his  feeling.  Equally  delighted  he  was  over  an 
editorial  in  the  Christian  Science  Monitor.  That  Indi 
ana  proposed  to  recognize  a  poet  formally  was,  ac 
cording  to  the  Boston  daily,  something  new  in  history, 
something  that  Massachusetts  never  did  for  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson  or  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  or  New 
York  for  William  Cullen  Bryant.  The  paper  went  on 
to  institute  a  comparison  between  Riley  and  Lincoln. 
While  Riley' s  courage  and  good  will  had  shown  in  less 
conspicuous  ways  than  Lincoln's,  it  had  also  been  ad 
mirable,  and  as  Indiana  honored  her  son  the  nation 
would  look  on  approvingly. 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        405 

"You  have  to  think  of  Riley  in  his  right  setting," 
said  the  Monitor,  "doing  much  the  same  humanizing 
work  as  a  poet,  that  Lincoln  did  as  a  statesman,  and 
with  the  same  instruments — pathos,  humor,  and  sin 
cere  love  of  men  as  men." 

Applause  for  the  poet  was  at  high  tide  in  Indian 
apolis,  October  7,  1915.  During  the  day  messages 
came  to  Lockerbie  Street  from  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land,  an  exceptional  one  from  the  office  of 
Secretary  Franklin  K.  Lane,  head  of  the  Federal 
Bureau  of  Education,  telling  of  the  nation-wide  cele 
bration  of  the  poet's  birthday  by  the  school  children. 
By  nation-wide  was  not  meant  that  the  celebrations 
were  formal  in  all  states  and  cities.  They  were  in 
formal,  for  instance,  in  Chicago,  St.  Paul,  and  at  the 
Panama  Exposition,  San  Francisco;  and  formal  in 
West  Virginia,  Jacksonville,  Florida,  Washington  City, 
and  Pittsburgh,  three  thousand  teachers  in  the  latter 
city  heartily  joining  in  the  exercises,  while  eighty 
thousand  children,  so  the  message  read,  tuned  their 
hearts  to  the  lines  of  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole"  and 
"The  Raggedy  Man."  With  other  felicitations  came 
cable  messages  from  Europe — from  Walter  H.  Page 
in  London,  Brand  Whitlock  in  Belgium,  and  Henry 
Van  Dyke  in  the  Netherlands. 

National  interest  in  the  anniversary  centered  in  a 
banquet  in  the  poet's  honor  in  what  has  since  been 
called  the  Riley  Room  in  the  Claypool  Hotel,  Indian 
apolis.  The  banquet  had  been  recommended  by  a  gen 
eral  committee  of  more  than  one  hundred  prominent 
citizens,  Charles  Warren  Fairbanks  being  the  chair 
man  and  also  the  toastmaster  on  the  occasion. 


406  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

In  one  particular  at  least  the  Riley  banquet  differed 
from  many  others;  the  committee  did  not  have  to  beg 
for  guests.  Although  there  were  four  hundred  plates 
at  ten  dollars  a  plate,  the  demand  exceeded  the  supply 
by  hundreds.  As  Walt  Mason  wrote  in  his  fluent  way, 
"If  all  who  love  him  could  be  there,  to  greet  the  bard 
beyond  compare,  they'd  need  a  banquet  hall  so  great, 
that  it  would  reach  across  the  state." 

The  speakers  and  the  toasts  to  which  they  responded 
were  as  follows: 

Governor  Samuel  M.  Ralston — "The  State  of  Indiana." 
Colonel   George  Harvey — "Why  Is  James  Whitcomb 

Riley?" 

Doctor  John  H.  Finley — "From  Cadmus  to  Riley." 
Young  E.  Allison— "Our  Southern  Cousins." 
Albert  J.  Beveridge — "Friendship." 
William  Allen  White— "The  Day  We  Celebrate." 
George  Ade— "The  Center  Table." 
Senator  John  W.  Kern — "Riley  in  the  Making." 

"This  great  banquet,  my  friends,"  said  Vice-Presi 
dent  Fairbanks,  before  introducing  the  speakers, 
"graced  by  so  many  men  who  have  achieved  distinc 
tion  in  the  world  of  letters,  statesmanship,  religion, 
education,  business,  and  other  honorable  spheres  in 
every  walk  of  life,  is  a  spontaneous  creation;  it  had 
its  origin  in  spontaneity,  which  emphasizes  its  signifi 
cance;  it  sprang  out  of  a  universal  desire  to  pay 
homage  to  one  of  the  most  gifted  among  us — a  friend 
and  benefactor  of  his  day  and  generation.  It  is  a 
happy  circumstance  that  our  governor  has  by  execu 
tive  proclamation  set  aside  to-day  as  Riley  Day  in 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        407 

Indiana.  It  is  significant  also  that  the  day  is  being 
celebrated  in  the  schools  of  other  states.  This  is  a 
distinction  as  deserved  as  it  is  unique.  The  heart  of 
millions  of  our  countrymen  have  been  touched  by  his 
poems,  and  the  influence  of  the  Hoosier  Poet  will  go 
on  as  the  years  pass  in  stately  procession.  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  is  in  truth  the  uncrowned  king  of 
young  America.  He  is  their  idol;  the  fragrance  of 
his  wholesomp  influence  has  become  a  part  of  their 
lives." 

That  all  the  speakers  would  be  warmly  greeted  on 
an  occasion  that  was  keyed  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
sympathetic  enthusiasm,  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 
At  the  close  of  his  speech,  Senator  Kern,  on  behalf  of 
the  Union  Soldiers  of  Indiana,  presented  to  the  poet  a 
beautiful  silk  flag,  made  especially  for  the  celebration. 

Referring  to  the  unexampled  success  of  the  ban 
quet,  William  Fortune  of  the  Indianapolis  Chamber 
of  Commerce  said:  "I  have  never  known  anything 
like  the  feeling  that  has  characterized  the  whole  under 
taking.  With  his  great  gifts  of  expression,  Mr.  Riley 
seems  to  find  words  quite  inadequate.  It  is  of  course 
unnecessary  for  him  to  say  anything.  The  people  are 
merely  responding  to  what  he  has  been  so  beautifully 
saying  for  them  all  through  his  life." 

Yet  the  poet — with  wavering  voice  under  the 
pressure  of  deep  emotions — did  contrive  to  say  some 
thing. 

"Then  came  the  climax  of  a  perfect  evening,"  says 
the  press  report,  "Mr.  Riley's  own  tribute  to  friends, 
old  and  new,  many  of  the  old  among  the  departed,  but 
still  tenderly  remembered.  The  poet  was  greeted 
with  the  warmth  that  marks  well  the  affection  in 


408  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

which  he  is  held  everywhere.     The  guests  stood  and 
voiced  their  feelings  in  a  happy  salutation." 

After  eulogizing  the  friends  departed  the  poet  said : 
"And  there  is  a  gladness  all  along  the  line,  from  the 
first  immortal  entrance  of  jovial  character  to  the  very 
present  company  to-night — the  faces  all  filled  with  the 
like  pleasure  and  happiness.  And  to  this  presence 
here  I  make  my  glad  obeisance  and  my  thanks  as  well 
to  those  friends  in  alien  quarters  who  have  so  kindly 
sent  their  words  of  cheer  and  Godspeed.  And  the 
distinguished  guests  who  have  spoken  in  tribute  here 
may  be  sure  of  my  most  feeling  gratitude. 

"And  may  I  express  particular  appreciation  for  the 
words  of  the  President  of  our  beloved  country,  who 
has  found  opportunity  in  the  stress  and  worry  of  these 
imperiled  times  to  remember  and  to  honor  us  with  his 
participancy  in  the  spirit  of  the  hour.  And  no  less 
are  we  all  grateful  for  the  message  of  Mr.  Ho  wells, 
our  master  of  letters — the  master,  worthy  as  beloved, 
and  beloved  as  worthy. 

"To  him,  to  these,  to  all  you  and  every  one — I  thank 
you — and,  in  the  words  of  little  Tim  Cratchit,  'God 
bless  us  every  one/  " 

Since  the  poet  mentioned  with  particular  apprecia 
tion  Mr.  Howells  and  the  President,  their  greetings 
follow  in  full : 

York  Harbor,  Maine,  September  5,  1915. 
I  would  gladly  come  to  the  Riley-Fest  if  I  were  not 
so  nearly  seventy-nine  years  old,  with  all  the  accumu 
lated  abhorrences  of  joyful  occasions  which  that  lapse 
of  time  implies.  But  I  can  not  really  be  away  when 
ever  Riley  is  spoken  of.  Give  him  my  dearest  love 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        409 

and  all  such  honor  as  one  of  the  least  may  offer  one  of 
the  greatest  of  our  poets. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 

The  White  House,  Washington,  September  1,  1915. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  it  will  not  be  possible  for  me  to 
be  present  at  the  banquet  which  the  citizens  of  Indi 
anapolis  are  planning  to  give  in  honor  of  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley;  but  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  will  not  be 
generous  enough  to  convey  to  Mr.  Riley  on  that  occa 
sion  a  message  of  cordial  regard  and  admiration  from 
me.  I  wish  that  I  might  be  present  to  render  my 
tribute  of  affectionate  appreciation  to  him  for  the 
many  pleasures  he  has  given  me,  along  with  the  rest 
of  the  great  body  of  readers  of  English.  I  think  he 
has  every  reason  to  feel  on  his  birthday  that  he  has 
won  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen. 

WOODROW  WILSON. 

If  there  was  ever  any  danger  that  local  pride  would 
"distort  the  view  and  magnify  beyond  recognition  the 
object  of  the  eulogy/'  that  danger  vanished  in  the  flood 
of  congratulations  on  the  poet's  last  birthday.  After 
the  banquet  it  could  be  truly  said  that  love  for  him 
was  national  and  the  voice  of  eulogy  American. 
Carolyn  Wells  could  list  him  "in  the  very  small  group 
who  have  earned  the  right  to  sit  on  the  classic  step 
between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous,"  and  Meredith 
Nicholson  could  affirm  that  "Riley  is  the  cheeriest  and 
hopefulest  spirit  in  American  literature,"  and  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson  could  say  that  the  Riley  songs 
"were  drawn  from  the  deepest  wells  of  human  experi 
ence,"  and  Henry  Watterson  wrote: 

Louisville,  October  5,  1915. 

No  one  can  have  approved  the  proceedings  more 
heartily  than  myself.  Honors  like  this  rarely  come  to 


410  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

a  living  man — never  before  came  to  any  poet,  living 
or  dead.  If  any  lure  could  tempt  me  from  a  resolution 
not  to  impose  myself  on  my  audience,  it  would  be  this 
occasion,  the  call  to  join  in  fitting  and  willing  homage 
to  an  old  friend.  In  Kentucky's  name  I  send  Ken 
tucky's  greeting.  Your  Governor  has  done  something 
more  than  distinguish  himself,  in  reinvoking  the 
Golden  Age  of  Song  and  reminding  the  world  that 
there  is  poetry  as  well  as  life  in  the  old  land  yet.  The 
official  designation  of  the  seventh  of  October  as  Riley 
Day  celebrates  the  state  of  Indiana  hardly  less  than 
Riley  himself,  Indiana's  best-beloved  citizen. 

More  than  any  American  poet  Riley  will  live  as  the 
people's  poet.  With  Burns  of  Scotland,  and  Beranger 
of  France,  he  already  forms  a  blessed  and  immortal 
trinity,  which  will  carry  the  folk  songs  of  three  races 
to  after  ages,  when  the  versifiers  of  the  highbrows  are 
forgotten.  Reading  Riley — drinking  the  while  a  toast 
to  the  day — the  world  may  feel,  and  even  above  the 
clash  of  arms  may  exultant  shout:  "There  is  yet  a 
little  sugar  in  the  bottom  of  the  glass." 

God  be  with  you  and  may  Riley  Day  become  peren 
nial. 

HENRY  WATTERSON. 

In  1906  Riley  remarked  that  he  would  not  live  to 
see  sixty.  Five  years  later,  in  his  sixty-second  year, 
after  a  paralytic  stroke,  he  said,  "I  have  finished  my 
work;  my  end  has  come."  The  news  traveled  over 
the  wires  and  newspapers  everywhere  prepared  their 
obituaries. 

But  the  end  did  not  come.  A  month  before  the  din 
ner  in  his  honor,  he  said  cheerfully,  "I  feel  like  a  boy. 
I  have  not  felt  so  strong  in  years.  I  drive  out  in  my 
car  and  am  enjoying  life  in  spite  of  the  war  in 
Europe."  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  quit  read- 


IN  THE  HEARTS  OF  THE  PEOPLE        411 

ing  the  newspapers  that  he  might  avoid  the  story  of 
pain  and  weeping. 

Some  forty  years  before  the  banquet,  an  obscure 
country  weekly  took  notice  of  an  initial  paper  in  the 
Earlhamite  by  J.  W.  Riley,  "a  poem  by  a  Hoosier  poet 
unknown  to  fame,"  ran  the  item,  "which  betrays  the 
touch  of  genius  in  every  line."  Whoever  wrote  the 
item  judged  truly.  The  poem  was  "Fame,"  in  which 
the  poetic  deity  comes  tardily  through  the  door  to 
crown  a  homeless,  lifeless  artist  and  sculptor.  Then 
gazing  down  a  dismal  vista  the  poet  regards  the  fate 
of  all  poets,  lonely  wandering,  aimlessly  journeying 
on  through  life  without  even  a  kindly  touch  for  the 
burning  brow,  and  the  end  a  dreary  defeat: 

"And  this  is  Fame!     A  thing  indeed, 
That  only  comes  when  least  the  need: 
The  wisest  minds  of  every  age 
The  book  of  life  from  page  to  page 
Have  searched  in  vain;  each  lesson  conned 
Will  promise  it  the  page  beyond." 

How  really  different  was  the  journey's  end  for 
Riley! 

After  passing  his  sixty-sixth  milestone,  he  was 
feeling  so  much  like  a  boy  that  time  seemed  to  promise 
"many  returns  of  the  day."  He  went  south  as  usual 
to  Miami,  Florida,  for  the  winter,  and  in  May  returned 
to  Indianapolis  and  his  daily  rides  about  the  city,  well 
and  happy  with  apparently  many  days  of  quiet  con 
tentment  before  him.  But  the  end  was  not  far  away, 
for  on  Saturday  night,  July  twenty-second,  at  ten 
minutes  of  eleven,  the  poet,  having  retired,  asked  for 


412  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

a  glass  of  water  and  turning  on  his  side  fell  asleep. 
As  gently  as  twilight  comes,  came  the  summons  from 
the  Silent  Land. 


THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 

Abbott,  Lyman,  220. 

Ade,  George,  228,  384,  400,  406. 

Adjustable  Lunatic,  324. 

Afterwhiles:  205;  publication  (1887),  226,  274,  280,  337,  346  350 

Agassiz,  Louis,  339. 

Alcott,  Bronson,  71,  267. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  180,  277. 

Alexander,  D.  S.,  30,  77-8. 

Allison,  Young  E.,  406. 

American  Notes,  224. 

Anderson,  Indiana,  14-7. 

Anderson  Democrat,  17,  59,  315,  322. 

Anderson  Herald,  17. 

Anderson,  Mary,  13,  244,  287. 

Andrews,  Mrs.  M.  L.,  229. 

Armazindy,  345-6,  350. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  191-5. 

Assassin,  The,  345. 

Atlanta  Constitution,  criticism  of  Riley,  279. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  The,  118,  135-7. 

At  Rest,  205. 

August,  53,  347. 

Autumn  Leaves  Is  Falling,  The,  253. 

Autumnal  Extravaganza,  An,  32, 

Away,  composition  of,  326. 

Babyhood,  30,  32. 
Ban,  The,  146. 

Bard  of  Deer  Creek,  The,  202. 
Bates,  Henry,  94. 

Bear  Story,  The:  78,  88,  94;  source,  349. 
Beautiful  City,  The,  202,  329. 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  327. 
Beers,  Henry  A.,  391. 
Beetle,  The,  25-6. 
Being  a  Boy,  280. 

Benefit  for  Actors'  Fund  (Nov.  15,  1888),  244. 
Bereaved:  271 ;  composition  of,  325. 
Beveridge,  Albert  J.,  406. 
Billings,  Josh,  See  Josh  Billings. 
Billy  Could  Ride,  203,  207. 
Biographical  Edition  of  Riley,  345. 

415 


416  INDEX 

Blake,  William,  influence  on  Riley,  319-20. 

Bloomington,  Indiana,  47. 

Blossoms  in  the  Trees,  202. 

Blue  Bird,  The,  368. 

Blue  Grass  Club  of  Louisville,  Ky.,  263. 

Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  The,  211,  345,  394. 

Bobbs,  William  C.,  347. 

Bolton,  Mrs.  Sarah  T.,  135. 

Book  of  Joyous  Children,  345,  349. 

Boone  County  Pastoral,  A,  151. 

Booth,  Franklin,  Edition  of  Flying  Islancfs,  347. 

Boss  Girl,  The:  209-14;  circular  about,  212. 

Boston  Advertiser,  The,  30. 

Boston  Pilot,  The,  135,  155. 

Bottsf ord,  Louise,  115. 

Bowen-Merrill  Company,  345. 

Boy  from  Zeeny,  The,  70,  228,  288. 

Boys,  The,  202. 

Brave  Love,  82. 

Bret  Harte  of  Indiana,  The,  94. 

Bride,  A,  25. 

British  Painters,  319. 

Bryan,  William  Lowe,  94. 

Bryant,  William  C.,  328,  404. 

Bryce,  J.  Burt,  35. 

Burdette,  Robert  J. :  44-52,  143,  151,  153,  165,  183,  184,  234,  263 

criticism  of  Lockerbie  Street,  292,  340. 
Burlington  Hawkeye,  48,  143. 
Burns,  Robert,  6,  83,  332,  394. 
Buzz  Clul  Papers,  7,  34,  36. 

Cable,  George  W.,  215,  222,  234,  242. 

Caller  -from  Boone,  A,  149-50. 

Cambridge  City,  Indiana,  97. 

Carman,  Bliss,  275,  2&3. 

Carnegie,  Andrew,  305. 

Carpenter,  Frank  G.,  269,  293. 

Carr,  George,  59-60. 

Catherwood,  Mary  Hartwell,  27-9,  102,  131,  171,  225. 

Cawein,  Madison,  266,  335. 

Century  Magazine,  The,  137,  165-6,  297,  326. 

Champion  Checker  Player  of  Ameriky,  The,  96. 

Characteristics  of  Hoosier  Dialect,  187. 

Characteristics  of  Western  Humor,  201. 

Chicago  Herald,  editorial  on  Riley,  308-9. 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean,  361-2. 

Chicago  Mail,  260. 

Chicago  Record-Herald,  390. 


INDEX  417 

Chicago  Tribune,  77. 

Chickering  Hall  (N.  Y.  C.),  215,  220,  242. 

Child  of  Waterloo,  A,  3. 

Child's  Home  Long  Ago,  A,  208. 

Child  Rhymes,  346. 

Child  World,  A:  345,  348-9;  published  in  London,  350-351. 

Chimney  Corner,  The,  3,  292. 

Christian  Science  Monitor,  404. 

Christine  Braidly  (pen-name  of  Mrs.  Catherwood),  28-9. 

Christy,  Howard  Chandler,  346. 

Christy-Riley  Series,  347. 

Cincinnati  Post,  386-7. 

Claypool  Hotel  (Indianapolis),  405. 

Clemens,  Samuel :  215 ;  letter  to  Foulke  about  Riley  at  W.  A.  W. 

dinner,  1888,  231 ;  see  Mark  Twain. 
Clickwad,  Mr.,  34-7. 
Clover,  The,  155. 
Coburn,  General  John,  53. 
Collyer,  Robert,  220. 
Coon  Dog  Wess,  312. 
Copyright  League  program,  220. 
Coquelin,  369. 

Counter-fitters'  Nest,  The,  154. 
Country  Pathway,  A,  347. 
Cow  Phenomenon,  234. 
Craqueodoom,  explanation  of,  322-4. 
Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  14. 
Crosby,  Dr.  Howard,  222. 

Crow's  Nest,  The,  Riley's  study,  105-6,  277,  317. 
Curly  Locks,  207. 
Curtis,  George  W.,  letter  about  Riley  at  W.  A.  W.  dinner,  1888, 

231,  274. 

Dallas,  Mary  Kyle,  82. 

Daly,  Augustine,  2,  242. 

Dana,  Charles  A. :  influence  on  Riley,  125-30;  letters,  127,  130,  351 ; 

letter,  352. 

Danbury  News  Man,  The,  18. 
Dan  Paine:  32 ;  quoted,  249. 
Dave  Field,  207. 
Davis,  John,  369. 
Dawn,  31. 

Dead  in  Sight  of  Fame,  56. 

Dead  Rose  (Riley's  study),  104,  107,  109,  113,  116,  277. 
Dead  Selves,  54. 
Dead  Wife,  The,  197. 
Debs,  Eugene  V.,  258. 
Decoration  Day  on  the  Place,  360. 


418  INDEX 

Deer  Crick,  234. 

Denison  House  (Indianapolis),  286. 

Denver  Times,  The,  393. 

Dialect  in  Literature  (paper  in  1890),  281-2. 

Dickens,  Charles :  8,  107 ;  influence  on  Riley,  172,  319,  349,  383, 386. 

Dickenson's  Grand  Opera  House  (Indianapolis),  96. 

Dicktown  Wonder,  The,  188. 

Divine  Emblems,  158. 

Dodds,  Mary  L.,  138-9. 

Dooley,  Mr.,  305. 

Dot  Leedle  Boy  of  Mine,  86,  347. 

Dream  of  Autumn,  A,  32. 

Dreams,  125. 

Dumas,  Alexandre,  287. 

Dunbar,  Hamilton  J.,  56. 

Dunbar  House,  101. 

Durbin,  Gov.  Winfield  T.,  365. 

Dusk,  31. 

Earlhamite,  The,  411. 

Eccentric  Mr.  Clark,  The,  70. 

Eccentricities  of  Western  Humor,  The,  187. 

Eitel,  Edmund  H.,  397. 

Eitel,  Henry,  226,  276. 

Eli  and  Hoiv  He  Got  There,  186. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  304,  335,  404. 

Enduring,  The,  277. 

Envoy,  quoted,  350. 

Fairbanks,  Charles  W. :    383,  405 ;  tribute  to  Riley,  406-7. 

Fame,  53,  101,  125,  211,  411. 

Farm  Rhymes,  346. 

Farmer  Whipple— Bachelor,  8,  82,  223,  347. 

Fessler's  Bees,  234. 

Field,  Eugene,  121,  234,  257. 

Finley,  John  H.,  406. 

Fishback,  William  P.,  261-2. 

Flying  Islands  of  the  Night,  The,  33,  34,  36-8,  128,  142,  322,  345. 

Forsaken  Merman,  The,  191. 

Fortune,  William,  407. 

Foster,  John  W.,  365. 

Foulke,  William  Dudley,  229. 

Frog,  The,  315. 

From  Delphi,  203. 

Frost  on  the  PunJcin,  The,  312. 

Funny  Little  Fellow,  The,  48-9. 

Garfield,  James  A.,  345. 


INDEX  419 

Garland,  Hamlin :  criticism  of  Afterwhiles,  226,  269. 

Giant  on  the  Show-Bills,  The,  70. 

Gilder,  Jeanette,  221. 

Glenarm  Club  (Denver),  263. 

Glimpse  of  Pan,  335. 

Girl  I  Loved,  The,  347. 

God  Bless  Us  Every  One,  32. 

Gould,  Judge  J.  H.,  205. 

Grand  Opera  House  entertainment,  1888,  (Indianapolis),  227-8. 

Grand,  Point,  222. 

Grant,  205. 

Grant,  Ulysses  S.,  death,  205-7,  266,  362. 

Grant  and  Coif  ax  campaign  (see  Vol.  I),  203. 

Greeley,  Horace,  241. 

Greenfield  Commercial,  8. 

Greenfield  Dramatic  Club,  5. 

Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks,  345,  348. 

Griggsby's  Station,  207,  370. 

Hadley,  Arthur  T.,  390. 

Halford,  Elijah  W.,  67,  227. 

Hancock  Democrat,  155. 

Hanna,  Hugh  H.,  396. 

Happy  Little  Cripple,  The,  176. 

Harding,  George,  64,  93. 

Harelip,  The,  217. 

Harper,  The,  329. 

Harper's  Monthly,  135,  137. 

Harris,  Captain,  373. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  232,  304,  333. 

Harrison,  Benjamin,  67,  229,  248,  363. 

Harry  Gilbert  Company,  4. 

Harte,  Bret :  18,  83 ;  on  choosing  a  profession,  330,  333. 

Harvey,  George,  406. 

Hay,  John :  letter  to  Riley,  83 ;  advice  to  Riley,  274 ;  letter  about 

Rhymes  of  Childhood,  284;  394. 
Hays,  Dr.  Franklin  W.,  104. 
Her  Beautiful  Hands,  36,  254,  329,  347. 
Herr  Weiser,  204. 
His  Pa's  Romance,  345. 
Hitt,  George  C.,  159-60,  174,  180,  211. 
Holland,  J.  G.,  309. 
Holstein,  Major  Charles  L.,  298,  341. 
Home  Again  irith  Me,  347. 
Home  Folks,  345. 
Home,  Sweet  Home,  277. 
Homestead  Edition,  150,  345. 
Home  Voyage,  The,  357. 


420  INDEX 

Hope,  144-5. 

Hoosier  Book,  The,  394. 
Hough,  Judge  (Greenfield),  130. 
How  Dutch  Frank  Found  His  Voice,  254. 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  378-9. 

Howells,  William  Dean:  136,  180,  215,  273;  criticism  of  Rhymes 
of  Childhood,  283 ;  394 ;  letter  to  Riley  on  birthday,  1915,  408. 
Howland,  Hewitt  Hanson,  394. 
Howland,  Livingstone,  261-2. 
Hubbard,  Elbert,  332, 
Huckleberry  Finn,  200. 
Hunchley,  Mr.,  34. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  108,  111. 
Hut  of  Refuge,  Th&,  103-4. 

If  I  Knew  What  the  Poets  Know,  31. 

Ike  Walton's  Prayer,  207. 

In  the  Dark,  56. 

Indianapolis,  47. 

Indianapolis  Journal,  51,  54,  56-76,  80,  89,  101,  103,  104,  113,  146, 

150-3,  157,  199,  207,  226-7,  291,  314,  345-6,  389. 
Indianapolis  Literary  Club's  reception  for  Riley,  260-1. 
Indianapolis  News,  26,  93,  249,  290. 
Indianapolis  people,  37. 

Indianapolis  Saturday  Herald,  23,  31-9,  60,  64,  90,  93,  144,  226. 
Indianapolis  Sentinel,  92. 
Indianapolis  Star,  400. 
International  Copyright  League,  215. 
Iron  Horse,  The,  347. 
Irving,  Henry,  242,  369. 

Jacob  Hind's  Child,  motif,  309-10. 

James  Whipcord  Riley,  294. 

Jamesy,  61. 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  13. 

Jimpsy,  294. 

Johnson,  Benjamin  F.,  of  Boone,  146,  148-56,  170,  360. 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood,  165,  409 

Johnson,  Samuel,  316. 

Jones,  Joseph  Levering,  tribute  to  Riley,  392. 

Jones,  Roselind,  146. 

Josh  Billings:  18;  letter  to  Riley,  185 ;  Riley's  poem  on,  186,  195. 

June  at  Woodruff,  271. 

Kansas  City  Star,  260. 
Keats,  John,  33. 
Kern,  John  W.,  406-7. 
Kickshaws,  119. 


INDEX  421 

Kingry's  Mill,  187. 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  109,  269;  letter  to  Riley,  311,  371. 

Kissing  the  Rod,  271. 

Knee-deep  in  June:  187,  202;  criticism  by  Lowell,  224. 

Knight,  Joseph:  33;  comment  on  Riley,  314. 

Kokomo  Dispatch,  20,  23,  25,  27-33. 

Kokomo  Tribune,  43, 119, 143. 

La-Ker-Ue,  quoted,  298. 

Landis,  Charles  B.,  introduction  of  Riley,  385. 

Lane,  Franklin  K.,  405         *    - 

Lang,  Andrew,  287. 

Lanier  House,  245. 

Lebanon,  Indiana,  74. 

Legend  Glorified,  The,  329. 

LeRoy  Kingen,  294. 

Let  Something  Good  Be  Said,  55. 

Lewisville,  Indiana,  19. 

Life  Lesson,  A,  114. 

Lily-Bud,  375. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  332. 

Lippincott's  Magazine,  137. 

Little  Attenuated  Capability,  The,  187. 

Little  Man  in  the  Tin  Shop,  The,  263. 

Little  Oak  Man,  The,  294. 

Little  Orphant  Annie,  117,  228,  370,  384. 

Little  Red  Apple  Tree,  The,  271. 

Little  Tommy  Smith,  96. 

Little  Town  of  Tailholt,  The,  32. 

Lockerbie  Book,  The,  394. 

Lockerbie  Street  (1893),  289-99. 

Lockerbie  Street:  quoted,  290;  composition  and  publication,  291-2; 

quoted,  299. 

Locomotive  Fireman's  Magazine,  23. 
Lodge,  Henry  Cabot,  390. 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  30,  42,  148,  178,  302,  308,  316,  329, 

368,  376,  389,  395,  404. 
Lost  Love,  A,  25. 
Lost  Path,  The,  40. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  152,  215-9,  221,  224-5. 

McCutcheon,  George  Barr,  229,  384. 

Macauley,  Daniel,  89,  93, 178. 

Macy,  A.  W.,  101. 

Mahala  Ashcraft,  312. 

Major,  Charles,  384. 

Man  without  a  Country,  A,  353. 

Marion,  Francis,  140. 


422  INDEX 

Marion,  Indiana,  2. 

Mark  Twain :  18,  164,  187,  234 ;  How  to  Tell  a  Story,  247,  333,  361, 

391,  394.     (See  Samuel  Clemens.) 

Martindale,  E.  B.:  56;  letter  to  Riley,  57,  58,  60-1,  65. 
Mason,  Walt,  406. 

Matthews,  Newton,  156,  213,  216,  271. 
Memorial  Edition  of  Riley,  346. 
Mercury,  142-3. 

Merrill,  Meigs  &  Company,  161. 
Miles'  Restaurant,  64. 
Mishawaka  Enterprise,  144. 
Mitchell,  Mrs.  Minnie  Belle,  398. 
'Mongst  the  Hills  o'  Somerset,  254. 
Monrovia,  Indiana,  Riley  at,  9-13. 
Monument  for  Soldiers,  A,  quoted,  366. 
Moon-Drowned,  32. 
Mooresville  Herald,  9. 

Morgue,  The,  102-3,  107,  109-11,  115,  121,  277,  317. 
Morning,  345. 
Morton,  Oliver  P.,  326. 
Mother-Song,  A,  40. 
Mr.  Bryce,  7. 

Mr.  Trillpipe  on  Puns,  71. 
My  Bride  That  Is  to  Be,  40. 
My  First  Spectacles,  116. 
My  Henry,  25,  27. 
My  Hot  Displeasure,  189-90. 
My  Old  Friend  William  Leachman,  154. 
My  Philosophy,  199. 
Myers,  W.  R.,  122. 

Name  of  Old  Glory,  The,  278,  393. 

Nasby,  Petroleum  V.,  18. 

Neghoorly  Poems,  156,  344-5,  391. 

New  England  Tragedies,  The,  395. 

New,  Harry  S.,  66-7. 

New,  John  C.,  71. 

New  York  Evening  Post,  30. 

New  York  Independent,  23. 

New  York  Sun:  125,  127,  130;  criticism  of  Riley,  223,  351. 

New  York  Trioune,  27. 

New  York  World,  222,  239,  264. 

Newcastle  Mercury,  23,  30-1. 

Nicholas,  Anna,  67,  169,  314,  331. 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  228,  269,  384,  393,  400,  409. 

Night,  31. 

No  Boy  Knows  When  He  Goes  to  Sleep,  392. 

Nothing  to  Say,  116,  137,  222,  238. 


INDEX  423 

Nye,  "Bill":  64,  216;  letter  to  Riley,  217;  criticism  of  Afterwhiles, 
226 ;  at  Indianapolis,  235 ;  at  Danville,  111.,  236 ;  characteri 
zation  of  Riley,  237>  243,  254,  259,  289,  306,  376. 

Nye,  Frank  M.,  348. 

Object  Lesson,  The,  51,  77,  86-8;  94,  196,  222. 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  206. 
Ode  to  Thomas  A.  Hendricks,  279. 
Old  Band,  The,  254. 

Old-Fashioned  Roses,  32,  59,  84-5,  254,  372. 
Old  Fiddler,  The,  70. 
Old  Man  and  Jim,  The,  228,  361. 
Old  Settler's  Story,  The,  343. 
Old  Soldier's  Story,  The,  187,  245. 
Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine,  An,  57,  82,  101,  125,  346,  375. 
Old  Swimmin'  Hole,  and  'Leven  More  Poems,  The:  151;  publica 
tion,  159-60;  preface,  162;  contents,  163;  197,  201,  209,  222. 
On  the  Banks  o'  Deer  Crick,  207-8. 
Open  Letter,  quoted,  317. 
O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  155,  178,  180,  230. 
O'Rell,  Max,  comment  on  Riley,  242. 
Our  Kind  of  Man,  205. 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's,  242,  347. 

Page,  Walter  H.,  405. 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow,  68. 

Paine,  Dan :  26 ;  letter  to  Riley,  248,  347. 

Papyrus  Club,  179. 

Parker,  Benjamin  S.,  30-1,  38,  71,  142,  229,  317. 

Park  Theater  Benefit  (1879),  227. 

Parkhurst,  Charles  L.,  220. 

Passing  of  a  Heart,  The,  25. 

Payne,  John  Howard,  277. 

Peace  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  The,  composition  of,  379. 

Peoria  Call,  The,  24-5,  30. 

Perkins,  Eli,  18. 

Perrin,  Bernadotte,  389. 

Phelps,  William  Lyon,  admiration  of  Riley,  391. 

Philips,  Charles,  42. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  179. 

Pipes  o'  Pan,  254,  337,  343. 

Pittsburgh  Dispatch,  criticism  of  Riley-Nye  tour,  252. 

Pittsburgh  Gazette,  338,  387. 

Pixy  People,  The,  329. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  39,  192. 

Poems  Here  at  Home,  345-6,  391. 

Poet  of  the  Future,  The,  composition  of,  254,  326. 

Poetry  and  Character,  177. 


424  INDEX 

Pond  Lyceum  Bureau,  242,  244,  254. 
Poor  Man's  Wealth,  A,  111,  202. 
"Pop"  June's  Restaurant,  67. 
Prayer  Perfect,  The,  55. 

Press  Club:  (Chicago  meeting,  1880,)  report  by  Nye,  239-40; 
speech  by  Riley,  240-1. 

Quarles,  Francis,  158. 

Ralston,  Samuel  M.,  404,  406. 

Reach  Your  Hand  to  Me,  55. 

Ream,  Laura,  67-8. 

Redpath  Lyceum  Bureau,  183,  188. 

Reed,  Enos  B.,  37. 

Reed,  Myron  Winslow :  26-7,  39-40,  44,  46,  48,  53-5,  62-3,  67,  86,  98, 
118,  125,  133-4,  145,  151,  167,  175,  179,  204,  263,  275,  280, 
301-5,  342,  375-6;  death,  377. 

Reedy,  William,  377. 

Remarkable  Man,  The,  56,  59,  211,  330. 

Respectfully  Declined  Papers  of  the  Buzz  Club,  34. 

Reveries  of  a  Rhymer,  136. 

Rhymes  of  Childhood,  136,  208,  280-4,  337,  345,  397. 

Richards,  Samuel,  164. 

Ridpath,  John  Clark,  comment  on  Riley,  333. 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb:  as  actor,  1-5;  as  reader,  5-22;  influence 
of  Longfellow,  8;  influence  of  Dickens,  8;  appearance  at 
Monrovia,  9-13;  at  Anderson,  14;  at  Kokomo,  19-22;  as 
newspaper  man,  23-40;  as  friend,  41-55;  at  Bloomington, 
47 ;  on  homesickness,  74-5 ;  on  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  78-80 ;  on 
the  lecture  platform,  77-99;  on  Luther  Benson,  79-80;  in 
fluence  of  Longfellow,  81;  Poet  Laureate  of  Indiana,  81; 
on  poetry,  81-9 ;  debut  in  Indianapolis,  1879,  89-94 ;  at  Galva, 
111.,  95 ;  workshops,  101-117 ;  letter  to  mother,  102 ;  letter  to 
H.  S.  Taylor,  108;  friendship  with  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox, 
112-115;  on  sectional  prejudice,  122-4;  influence  of  Charles 
A.  Dana,  125-30;  letter  to  E.  W.  Wilcox,  135;  letter  to 
young  writer,  137-8;  letter  to  Mary  L.  Dodds,  138-9;  pen 
names,  141,  143,  146;  first  book,  159;  letter  to  Robert  U. 
Johnson,  166;  letter  to  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  167;  descrip 
tion  by  Myron  Reed,  167;  description  by  self,  168-9;  in 
fluence  of  Dickens,  172;  letter  to  George  C.  Hitt,  178;  on 
New  England,  181-2;  letter  to  Lewis  D.  Hayes,  189-90;  let 
ter  to  Hitt,  189 ;  letter  to  Reed  about  Matthew  Arnold,  193 ; 
letter  to  Hitt,  202;  letter  to  Browning,  210;  letter  to  Bill 
Nye,  218;  characterizations  of  Lowell,  Clemens,  Stoddard, 
Eggleston,  Howells,  Stockton,  Cable,  Curtis,  Warner,  Page, 
Collyer,  224 ;  toast  at  W.  A.  W.  dinner,  1888,  229 ;  letter  to 
Dana,  232 ;  Riley-Nye  combination,  1886,  234 ;  letter  to  Hitt, 


INDEX  425 

237;  second  appearance  in  New  York,  242-4 ;  with  Nye  at 
Macon,  Ga.,  245;  story  of  soldier,  246;  with  Nye  at  Louis 
ville,  246;  at  Indianapolis,  1889,  247;  at  Springfield,  pro 
gram,  250;  partnership  dissolved,  257;  letter  to  Dan  Paine, 
264 ;  decline  of  power,  273 ;  as  business  man,  276 ;  financial 
prosperity,  276;  criticism  in  Atlanta  Constitution,  279;  effect 
of  city  life,  279;  letter  to  Edward  Bok  about  Rhymes  of 
Childhood,  282;  habits  of  eating,  287;  letter  to  Stoddard, 
288;  letter  to  Holstein  family,  294,  296;  moves  to  Lockerbie 
Street,  290;  advice  to  young  poets,  300;  visit  to  England, 
1891,  301 ;  love  of  home,  301 ;  on  English  art,  302 ;  inspira 
tion  from  homely  subjects,  302-8;  fear  of  lack  of  apprecia 
tion,  309 ;  method  of  production,  315-8 ;  influence  of  William 
Blake,  319 ;  influence  of  night,  319-21 ;  belief  in  inspiration, 
324-8 ;  choice  of  life-work,  330 ;  book-building,  337-52 ;  letter 
to  Madison  Cawein,  337;  letter  to  Ras  Wilson,  338;  letter 
to  Dr.  W.  C.  Cooper,  339;  letter  to  William  C.  Edgar,  339; 
habits  of  production,  340 ;  publications,  345 ;  letter  to  Louise 
C.  Moulton,  348 ;  in  Civil  War  days,  353-56 ;  birthday,  1891, 
357;  at  Grant  celebration,  359-62;  toast  at  ex-President 
Harrison's  reception,  362-4;  dedication  of  Soldiers'  and 
Sailors'  Monument,  Indianapolis,  365-7;  philosophy,  368; 
histrionic  ability,  369-72;  death  of  father  (1894),  372;  at 
Greenfield  in  1896,  372-5;  story  about  miner,  373;  at  Denver 
in  1896,  376 ;  at  Boston  in  1897,  377-9 ;  at  Washington,  1899, 
379 ;  program  at  Chicago,  1900,  380-4 ;  at  Authors'  Readings, 
Indianapolis,  1902,  383;  tour  of  1903,  385-8;  honors,  Yale's 
degree,  389-92;  University  of  Pennsylvania,  1904,  392-3; 
Riley  and  revivalist,  395;  religion,  395-6;  1912  greeting  to 
school  children,  399 ;  gift  to  Indianapolis  of  site  for  Public 
Library,  397;  election  to  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters,  398;  state  celebration  of  Riley  Day,  398;  letter  to 
Indianapolis  school  children,  398;  1913,  reception  at  Music 
Hall,  Cincinnati,  402;  1913,  given  keys  to  Anderson,  400-2; 
birthday  celebration  in  1915,  Governor's  proclamation  and 
program,  403-6 ;  death,  411. 

Riley,  Margaret,  130. 

Robert  Clarke  and  Company,  161. 

Rochester  Chronicle,  criticism  of  Riley  and  Nye  tour,  252. 

Rockville,  Indiana,  94. 

Romance  of  a  Waterbury  Watch,  The,  234. 

Romancing  25. 

Rough  Diamond,  The,  4. 

Rubaiyat  of  Doc  Sifers,  The,  345-6. 

Russell,  Sol  Smith,  13. 

St  Botolph  Club,  179. 
St.  Louis  Mirror,  377. 


426  INDEX 

St.  Nicholas  Magazine,  118, 136. 

Scribner's  Sons  Publishing  Co.,  345. 

Sermon  of  a  Rose,  The,  118,  277. 

Shakespeare,  William,  333. 

Shower,  The,  30,  135. 

Silent  Victors,  The,  31,  53. 

Sketches  in  Prose,  214,  345. 

Sleep,  30. 

Sleeping  Beauty,  A,  32,  116. 

Smith,  Wycliffe,  203,  208. 

Soldier,  The,  365. 

Soldier  s<  Here  To-day,  quoted,  357. 

Song  I  Never  Sing,  The,  55. 

Song  of  Yesterday,  136. 

South  Wind  and  the  Sun,  The,  113. 

Spencer,  Indiana,  46. 

Squire  Hawkins's  Story,  60. 

Stein,  Evaleen,  384. 

Stockton,  Robert,  215. 

Stoddard,  Charles  Warren,  287-8. 

Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  280. 

Sulgrove,  Berry,  93. 

Sumner,  Charles,  376. 

Tale  of  a  Spider,  A,  109. 

Tales  of  the  Ocean,  342. 

Tarkington,  Booth:  211-12,  229,  331,  370;  tribute  to  Riley,  384,  394. 

Taylor,  Howard  S.,  95. 

Temple  Talks,  179. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  206. 

Terre  Haute  Courier,  62. 

Terrill,  William  H.,  326. 

Terry,  Ellen,  242. 

Tharp's  Pond,  319. 

Thomas,  Edith  M.,  165. 

Thompson,  Denman,  244. 

Thompson,  Maurice :  23,  27 ;  criticism  of  Riley,  278. 

Thompson,  Richard  W.,  56. 

Tile  Club,  180. 

To  J.  W.  R.  (Kipling)  quoted,  284. 

To  Robert  Burns,  55. 

Tom  Johnson's  Quit,  25,  127. 

Tom  Sawyer,  280. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  32,  347. 

Toodles,  3. 

Tradin'  Joe,  85-6,  262. 

Travelers'  Rest,  154. 

Tree  Toad,  The,  32,  77. 


INDEX  427 

Tremont  Temple,  177. 
Trowbridge,  J.  T.,  146-7. 

Under  the  Gaslight,  2. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  Western  spirit,  312-3,  331,  405. 
Van  Zile,  Edward  S.,  264. 
Vawter,  Will,  340. 
Vinton  Block,  103. 
Voorhees,  Daniel  W.,  56. 

W.  A.  W.,  229. 

Wait,  121. 

Walker  Poems,  30. 

Walker,  John  C.,  143-4. 

Wallace,  Lew,  327,  365,  384. 

Walsh,  John,  54. 

Wandering  Jew,  The,  127,  294. 

Ward,  Artemus,  195. 

Washington  Post,  379-80. 

Watches  of  the  Night,  347. 

Watterson,  Henry :  332 ;  on  Grant,  362 ;  letter  to  Riley  on  birthday, 
1915,  409. 

Way  We  Walk,  The,  70. 

Wells,  Carolyn,  409. 

Western  Association  of  Writers,  dinner,  1888,  228,  229. 

Western  Lyceum  Agency,  255. 

'Wet  Weather  Talk,  202. 

When  the  Frost  Is  on  the  Punkin',  176,  222. 

Where  Is  Mary  Alice  Smith,  70. 

White,  William  Allen,  406. 

Whitlock,  Brand,  405. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  389. 

Whittleford  Letters,  28-9,  102,  131. 

Wide-Awake,  118. 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler:  71;  friendship  with  Riley,  112-15;  descrip 
tion  of  Riley,  114,  291. 

Willard,  Frances,  comment  on  Bereaved,  325-6. 

William  McKinley,  357. 

Wilson,  Ras,  387. 

Wilson,  Robert  Burns,  293. 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  letter  to  Riley  on  birthday.  1915,  409. 

Wizard  Oil  Company,  223. 

Writers'  Singing  Bee,  229. 

Xenia,  Ohio,  48. 
Yankee  Blade,  109. 


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Book  Slip-25w-6,'66(G3855s4)458 


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PS2706 
Dickey,  M.  D4 

The  maturity  of  James 
Whitcomb  Riley. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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